Eagle
by Proseac
Summary: A Marine Lt. Colonel turns up dead on an Arlington, VA golf course. The MCRT links the case to a cold file-they've got a serial killer on their hands. The investigation takes multiple twists and turns, but it all somehow revolves around 'Eagle', a homeless vet and former Marine sniper, frequently seen hanging around the golf course. Is he a witness, a suspect...or the next victim?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story began as an idea that wouldn't leave me alone, back in 2012. By NaNoWriMo 2014 I finally managed to spit out a rough draft, but then it again sat dormant until **Seleya889** (aka Hinky-Hippo) gave me a poke about the 2016 NCIS Big Bang. I realized it was time to put myself 'out there' once again with a major multi-chapter fic. I'm both excited and terrified, but people have been bugging me to post again, so what the heck. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Many thanks are due to the following people:

To my dear friend **Scousemuz1k** , for beta work above and beyond the call of duty. This work is so much better because of you!

To **Seleya889** , who created some amazing artwork to accompany this story - I am in awe of your talent, and very proud to have your beautiful art linked to my story. Thank you! Since I can't post links here, and the "cover image" function on this site is useless as it chops everything down to a narrow rectangle, please visit her on AO3 to view the artwork. I have an account on AO3 as well, and you can also access the art that way.

To **Solariana** (Jacie) on LiveJournal, for organizing and administering the NCIS Big Bang. What a huge task, and I'm amazed that you do it all, with no assistance! Thank you for keeping us organized and making this challenge run like clockwork. You ROCK!

* * *

 **Chapter 1**

"I got five already!"

"Loser. I got 12."

Wading through the tall grass near a large water hazard on the 14th hole at Cypress Point Golf Club, harvesting lost golf balls, was a favourite summer pastime for brothers Trevor and Michael Stanley. For the last couple of seasons, the haul had increased, likely due to fears of Lyme Disease and West Nile virus that made the duffers wary of venturing into the marshy area. Mindful of their mother's concern, the boys always wore long pants, shirts with sleeves, and doused themselves in bug spray, although the mandatory hat and gloves, without fail, came off and got shoved in their backpacks the moment they were beyond sight of the house.

It was a lucrative business, and the two boys could be found here at least once or twice a week during the summer months. The young entrepreneurs were quite pleased with their haul on this bright, sunny day, and it seemed that by week's end, they'd each have pocketed an extra $30 or so from passing golfers eager to save a few bucks on nearly new Titleist or Nike balls.

"Hey, that looks like one over there!" the tow-haired Michael called to his sibling, rushing towards the white glint he'd spotted in the brush further back in the woods that bounded the course. Startled wildlife scattered in multiple directions at his approach. Trevor was busy combing through some long reeds by the water's edge and paid little heed…until he heard a yelp of horror.

"What? What'd you find, dude?" Shaking the mud from his shoes, 12-year old Trevor made his way towards the spot from which Michael, two years his junior, had just emerged.

"It's a dead guy!" The younger boy was visibly shaken, and his face had gone several shades paler.

"Yeah, right! Not falling for that one." Trevor brushed past his brother to look for himself. Their mother had a reputation as a practical joker - a trait that Michael had inherited. To his great embarrassment, Trevor had fallen for more than one elaborate ruse in the past few months at his brother's hand, and he wasn't about to get caught again.

But this was no joke. "Woah!"

"We should tell someone," Michael urged, regaining his composure. He glanced out at the fairway to make sure they hadn't drawn the attention of the course marshall, who'd ridden past them on a golf cart not five minutes earlier.

"Just a minute…hey, this guy's military! He's got dog tags." Trevor pulled on the chain around the man's neck. He squinted to decipher the inscription. "Hartmann. Wilhelm B. O Pos. 638 34 2309. USMC."

"Hey, don't touch him, Trev! Haven't you ever watched CSI? You'll get in trouble if you contaminate the scene." He paused, then added soberly, "they might think you had something to do with it."

"Oh shit. Yeah. Shoulda kept my gloves on." Trevor emerged from the brush, wiping his hands on his jeans. Looking up, he noticed Michael grinning broadly, and realized he'd been had, yet again. He pursed his lips.

"We better call the cops," the younger boy said, digging around in his backpack for his cell phone.

Trevor shook his head, slung his own backpack over his shoulder, and marched out onto the well-manicured fairway, beckoning Michael to follow him. "No way. We go to the clubhouse. Let THEM call the cops. The less involved we are the better."

* * *

It had been two weeks since the MCRT had had an active case - an unusually long stretch. At first it had been a welcome reprieve, but after 8 days of poring over cold cases for fresh ideas, everyone on Team Gibbs was starting to go a little numb.

The stack on Tony's desk wasn't going down as quickly as Tim and Ellie's. Tim took note of this, and surmised (correctly) that his partner's head wasn't in the game.

For some time now, Tony had been in a funk; merely going through the motions. He was so good at his job, that anyone who didn't work with him on a daily basis would never have detected the decrease in his performance. But Tim had noticed. As had Gibbs. The bossman was becoming increasingly annoyed and impatient with his second. Meanwhile, Tony plodded along, seemingly oblivious to the rising tension. Tim was genuinely worried that things would soon come to a head between the two men; and when they did, he did not want to be around to witness it.

He had once thought Tony to be very ambitious. In fact, Tim cringed every time he remembered the way he and Ziva had goaded DiNozzo back in 2007, when he'd briefly taken over the team. "You're not Gibbs," they had reminded him, time and again. No, he wasn't. But in hindsight, maybe that had been a good thing. He'd been an excellent team leader, McGee had to admit. You never knew what you had until you'd lost it, and yes, these days he occasionally wished Gibbs had never returned from his little hiatus in Mexico, and that Tony were still in charge.

Tim now knew that Director Shepard had offered Tony his own team. He couldn't imagine why DiNozzo had turned it down. Seven years on, the SFA seemed altogether too comfortable in his present position. Or perhaps it was merely inertia? Stan Burley had recently commented that Tony had been playing second-fiddle to Leroy Jethro Gibbs far longer than he had ever imagined possible, and expressed awe and amazement that he'd managed to tough it out for so long. For his part, McGee was starting to wonder why his partner seemed to be stuck. Not that he minded; he couldn't imagine what his life would be like without Tony as a buffer between him and Gibbs.

But underneath the veneer, DiNozzo was a very private man. Tim could engage in all the armchair psychology he wanted, and it wouldn't get him any closer to the truth. There was no telling what was causing Tony's current malaise. It might not be work-related at all. Possibly he was worried about his father, whose behaviour was becoming increasingly erratic. Dating woes were another very real possibility, and come to think of it, Tony had been unusually quiet on that topic for quite awhile now.

Tim couldn't stand the silence in the bullpen any longer, and felt the need to fill the void. Maybe he could draw Tony out, get him to open up about what was bothering him?

"Only three files left to go," he announced, conspicuously moving two folders to the other side of his desk.

"It's not a race, McGee," Tony fired back, leaning back in his chair and flipping the page on the file he was studying. "There are people who've been waiting for years to get closure on some of these cases. We owe it to them to take our time and study them properly."

The comment cut Tim to the quick, and his face reddened.

Ellie felt the need to defend him. "It's not that we're rushing through them, Tony. There's nothing new here. I've been through these files three times already, and I just can't find anything that got missed the first time around."

Tim added, "Believe me, Tony, if there was even a shred of evidence that could be re-examined or explored in a different way, I'd be all over it. I can't even think straight anymore. I need to go home." He shot his partner a pointed glance.

"So do I. But don't try to tell me that after ten years, you still think Gibbs is going to let you go home just because you can't think straight."

With perfect timing, Gibbs came off the elevator at a clip, snapping shut his cell phone.

" _Nobody's_ going home, DiNozzo. Grab your gear. We got a dead Marine at a golf course in Norfolk."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Cypress Point Golf & Country Club was a lush, private 18-hole golfers' paradise. The greens and fairways were meticulously groomed, and manager Salvator Mendez was adamant that under no circumstances would the MCRT vehicles be permitted to drive on his precious grass. After he'd argued the point with Gibbs for about five minutes, they'd come up with a compromise; they'd used golf carts to transfer their equipment to the 14th fairway. The body of Lt. Col. Wilhelm (William) Hartmann lay, face down, in the mossy brush under a large stand of sycamore trees, about 150 yards from the green, his upper torso exposed to the elements.

"Bishop and I'll take the scene; you talk to the kids," Tony instructed McGee.

Tim nodded in acknowledgement, but then a different set of orders came. "McGee, photos. Bishop, bag & tag. DiNozzo, talk to those kids. Find out what they touched, and get their prints so Abby can eliminate them," Gibbs countermanded as he pulled out his cell phone to check on Ducky & Jimmy's whereabouts. Ellie gave him an apologetic smile, and donned her gloves. Tony's mouth opened and closed as Gibbs strode past, but he didn't argue. What was the point?

They'd been working together for thirteen years. He certainly didn't need Gibbs telling him how to do his job. Hell, he'd done _Gibbs_ ' job for several months, and received a commendation for it. Nevertheless, the boss seemed to have a persistent need to exert his authority at a crime scene. Making a fuss about it wasn't going to change that. Sighing, Tony pulled out his notepad and strode across the fairway towards the gathering crowd.

Although the pro shop had sounded the klaxon (normally used to alert golfers to incoming thunderstorms and consequent closure of the course), the sunny, cloudless sky had prompted many to ignore the warning. A backlog was building at the 14th hole. There were now three foursomes milling around the tee box, in addition to Mendez, Rick Steeves (the course marshall), and Violet Ferguson, the sexy 20-something canteen girl (who was the recipient of Tony's best and brightest smile). Everyone gawped in bewildered amazement at the three golf carts, multiple uniformed officers, and yellow police tape gracing the right rough.

Among the onlookers, Gerald Stanley stood by with Trevor and Michael, looking more than a little annoyed. He'd been pulled out of an important business meeting, as soon as the first responders had realized they were dealing with a couple of under-age kids. He had warned his sons on more than one occasion not to venture onto the golf course; it was technically trespassing, even though the club's manager (and Mrs. Stanley, for that matter) generally looked the other way. If only they'd done as they'd been told, someone else would be dealing with this mess right now instead of him.

"Mr. Stanley," Tony nodded. "Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. I just have a few questions for your boys."

"Uh-huh…can we make this quick? I need to conference with Japan in an hour." Stanley Senior had a bluetooth device hanging out of his ear, a scowl on his face and an overall demeanour that was eerily reminiscent of Tony's father. Tony ignored the attitude, and persevered.

"This'll only take a few minutes," he said. Pulling the boys aside, he motioned to them to sit down on the bench away from the crowd, near the adjoining 17th tee, and began to take their statements - a process that went more smoothly than he'd expected.

"Ok, boys. No need to be scared. Just tell me what you were doing when you found the body." It seemed these kids watched far too much television for their own good, and were terrified they'd be implicated in the murder simply by virtue of having contaminated the scene. DiNozzo reassured them that as long as they told the truth, they had nothing to worry about. "Did you see anyone go in or out of the woods before you got there?" They shook their heads no.

He took their fingerprints, and shoe prints as well (the MCRT had found evidence of at least three different shoe treads in the muddy soil surrounding the crime scene). With a melange of eager anticipation, raw curiosity and sheer terror, the brothers closely examined every step of the process. "Nick Stokes doesn't do it this way," Trevor muttered.

"Do I look like Nick Stokes?" Tony snapped. He caught himself, and added more gently, "Don't believe everything you see on TV. Come to think of it, don't believe 95% of what you see on TV." He handed each of them a business card. "If either of you thinks of anything else you've forgotten to tell me, you can give me a call, ok?" They nodded.

As the boys ran back to their father, Tony turned his attention to the young blonde canteen girl.

"Hi there," Tony smiled. "I'm Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

She looked him up & down and smiled nervously. "Sure. I guess." She blew a bubble and popped it.

"What's your name?"

"Violet Ferguson. I work in the canteen." She tossed her head towards the small snack shack perched on a hill between the first and tenth holes.

"Violet. That's a pretty name," he smiled. "Tell me, Violet, did you know Col. Hartmann?"

"Well, I wouldn't say I knew him, but I seen him around the last few days. I think he just joined the club a week or two ago. He's been playing 9 holes most every day. Sometimes mornings, sometimes after work, I guess. Doesn't talk much. Bit of a stuffed shirt." She wrinkled her nose.

"Uh-huh." Tony made notes. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"Couple of days ago. I guess it was Wednesday night. Yeah. I remember, 'cos he and Eagle had a fight - thought we were gonna have to call the cops, but Eagle had the good sense to walk away before it came to that."

"Eagle?"

"Yeah. Eagle. He's like our mascot. He hangs around when the course is open, does odd jobs, y'know? And he spots shots for the golfers. Some of these old guys forget where their ball went right after they hit. They lose way more balls when Eagle's not around."

"What were they fighting about?"

"No idea. I can't hear anything with the fan goin' in the canteen. It gets real hot in there." She fanned herself and smiled coyly at him.

He cleared his throat and continued. "This guy have a _real_ name?"

She shrugged. "Sure, probably. I don't know what it is, though."

Tony gave her a pained smile. "I don't suppose you know where he lives, either?"

"Nope."

"All right. Do you think you could describe him to our sketch artist?"

"Sure." She looked up at him, smiled broadly, and winked.

Tony sighed, as he realized that the young, fluffy types no longer held any attraction for him. The older he got, the more he longed for a relationship with a woman of substance. His frat boy days were definitely over. He handed her a business card, and told her someone would be in touch with her shortly.

Interviews with Mendez and Steeves corroborated Violet's tale of an altercation between Hartmann and "Eagle" in the parking lot early Wednesday evening. No-one seemed to know what had started it, but Rick Steeves observed that they seemed to know each other. Neither man had seen "Eagle" since that incident. Tony made a note that the composite sketch should be shown when they interviewed Hartmann's family, friends and co-workers.

Returning to the thicket, Tony noted that Ellie had bagged a number of incidental items found at the scene, including several pieces of torn clothing. He surveyed the perimeter, and grabbed a pair of gloves and an evidence bag in order to secure a piece of partially chewed gum still stuck to a tree some 100 yards away.

Ellie's eyes widened, and she bit her lip. "Sorry Tony, I don't know how I missed that."

"Rule six, Bishop." Tony winked at her. "Just remember to always learn from your mistakes." She nodded appreciatively, and yanked the sealed bag out of his hand.

Just then, Ducky and Jimmy finally arrived, as usual each one blaming the other for getting them lost on the way. After receiving the same lecture from Mendez that had been delivered to Gibbs earlier, they had balanced the stretcher on another golf cart, and ridden out to join the rest of the team. The course was inaccessible to non-members, and Ducky was intrigued. The fourteenth hole was a dogleg left, with a water hazard along one side and two bunkers in front of the green.

"A three-wood off the tee, I think."

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Mallard?" Jimmy had received stern instructions to stick to the cart paths, but, not being a golfer himself, he was having difficulty getting his bearings, and it took all his concentration to study the little map on the back of the score card and find his way.

"Never mind, Mr. Palmer. Over there." The ME pointed to the clump of trees which had been cordoned off by the yellow crime scene tape. With relief, Jimmy pulled the cart up to a stop next to the thicket, and Tony helped him remove the gurney while Ducky surveyed the scene. But the ME hung back, waiting for his assistant to catch up.

"'Bout time you two got here," Gibbs groused. Ducky simply ignored him.

"Who do we have here, Jethro?"

"Lt. Colonel William Hartmann. Marine Corps Combat Development Command."

"Mr. Palmer." Ducky stood back and held out his hand, offering Jimmy the lead.

"Doctor?" Jimmy responded hesitantly, a reluctant smile on his face.

"You managed perfectly well without me for over three months. It's quite clear that you know what you are doing. Carry on."

"Yes, Doctor." Jimmy pulled out the liver thermometer from his kit, and inserted it carefully into the body. "He's been dead approximately 36 hours, Agent Gibbs." Gibbs made a note. TOD, early Thursday morning, somewhere around 6 or 7 am. Given that the victim was dressed in golf clothing, with a glove still on his left hand, it was likely he'd come out for an early morning round before starting his work day.

"Cause of death?" Gibbs inquired, as he scanned the crowd - mostly curious golfers, as well as the marshall, and a rather buxom young blonde who was vigorously chewing a wad of gum. Tony was chatting her up. He'd better be getting some useful information out of her, or else Gibbs would have something to say about that.

"There are multiple knife wounds. It looks like a pattern of some sort, carved into his back." McGee snapped three photos. "There's minimal bleeding, so it's likely it was done after he was killed."

"Anything else, Mr. Palmer?" Ducky stood with his arms crossed, trying hard to hide the sense of pride he felt in his assistant.

Jimmy examined Hartmann's hands - the right one exposed, the left sporting a pristine white leather golf glove. "No defensive wounds. It's likely that he was taken by surprise." They turned the body, revealing a wide slit across Hartmann's throat.

"Well, looks like we know what killed him," Tim said.

"Probable, but it's always best not to assume anything until after the autopsy," Jimmy replied. He hesitated for a moment, looking up at Ducky expectantly. Ducky smiled and nodded.

Tony peered at the body, and wrinkled his nose. "Ouch." Gibbs shot him a sideways glance that said, _Shut up, DiNozzo_. Tony grinned sheepishly, grateful the glare had not been accompanied by a head slap. What had begun as an occasional affectionate smack had lately turned into a nasty, and all too convenient outlet for Gibbs' frustrations, and Tony had come to dread it. "Interviewed the kids, boss. They're pretty freaked out, but I don't think they did much damage to the crime scene."

"What about her?" Gibbs grunted, nodding towards Violet.

"Apparently there's some homeless guy who hangs around the club. The owner says he's harmless, but Violet saw him arguing with Hartmann yesterday in the parking lot."

" _Violet_?" Gibbs snorted.

Tony ignored his boss' disdain, and continued. "I put calls in to Metro and my contacts at a couple of the local shelters. We don't have a name for this guy, but everyone calls him 'Eagle' , apparently. I've also arranged for a sketch artist. We'll get a likeness sent out on the wire."

Gibbs nodded approval. "You call me the minute you get a name." He took one last swig of his coffee, tossed it in the garbage next to the tee box, and marched back to the Charger.

As Ellie, Tim and Tony packed up the evidence they'd collected, Ducky and Jimmy bagged the body and loaded it onto the golf cart. It was a tricky business - Jimmy had to walk alongside the cart to stabilize the stretcher, while Ducky drove. It took them a full 10 minutes to return whence they'd come and load Hartmann onto the van.

Ducky glanced back longingly at the lush green fairway. This being a private club, the only way he'd ever have the chance to play the beautifully manicured course was by invitation. Sadly, he didn't know anyone who was a member. "If only…" he sighed.

On his way back to the parking lot, Tony noticed Violet heading into the canteen, hips swaying a little more than necessary. As she disappeared into the building, she spit out her gum into an ashtray by the door. Once she was out of sight, he approached, pulled a glove out of his pocket and retrieved the gum, sliding it into an evidence bag.

* * *

Once they were back in the bullpen, Ellie put up the victim's official military photo on the plasma. Gibbs breezed in, fresh from a coffee run.

"Go." All three jumped up to join him in front of the plasma, and Tim grabbed the clicker.

"Our victim is Lt. Col. William Hartmann, age 52. Currently assigned to Marine Corps Combat Development Command at Quantico, VA - Operation Urban Warrior. He's a highly decorated Marine, served two tours in the first Gulf War, the second as a Gunnery Sergeant in charge of a 5-man specialist tactical unit stationed in Kuwait.

"Family?"

Ellie chimed in. "Married, with two children - one in university, one in high school."

Tim handed her the clicker, and she brought up the crime scene photos, taking over the debrief.

"Our victim was found with an unusual symbol carved on his back, likely put there post-mortem. We found a torn shirt a few yards away from the body, very bloody. Also a piece of gum stuck to a tree," she gave Tony a sheepish glance, and he winked. "Abby is running tests on those now. We also have another piece of gum from one of the witnesses…Violet Ferguson." Ellie flipped through her case file to check the notes. "She is the canteen girl, and according to the course manager, she would have been on duty when Hartmann was killed. If we get a DNA match on the two pieces of gum, we can consider her a person of interest."

They waited for Tony to give his report on the rest of the interviews he'd done of the bystanders, but he seemed lost in thought. He stood staring at the plasma intently.

"DiNozzo. You got something for us?" Gibbs knew that look. He could almost see the puzzle pieces rearranging themselves in Tony's brain.

Tony returned to his desk and rifled through the stack of file folders, at last pulling one out with an "Aha!" He retrieved a photo from the file, and held it up next to the plasma.

"I knew it," he quipped. "I saw that symbol on Hartmann's back, and it looked familiar, boss. It's from one of the cold cases I've been working on. It's a Chi Rho - an ancient Christian symbol."

Gibbs arched an eyebrow, and nodded for Tony to continue. Ellie stood next to Tony as he read them in on the case.

"Three members of an elite five-man Marine unit were killed over a period of several months back in 1991, the first one within weeks of their return stateside after Desert Storm. Each victim had this same symbol carved on their backs. The DNA evidence was scarce, and what there was, was tainted so they couldn't get anything definitive from it. In '92 the murders stopped - the investigation never revealed why, and the case went cold."

Tony returned to his computer, and pulled up the file. He grabbed the clicker from Bishop and aimed it at the plasma, bringing up photos of the three victims. "Private First Class Andrew Murphy; Corporal James Warner; Corporal Steven Chu. The DC Field Office worked the case for months, and kept hitting dead ends."

Tony stopped talking. Gibbs tipped his head to one side and glanced at him impatiently. "What else?"

"That's it, boss."

"That's IT? What about their last assignment?"

Tim, who had returned to his desk and searched online for the file, rose to Tony's defence. "The file was sealed, boss. There's no additional information available."

"Sealed by who?" Gibbs demanded.

"DoD."

"Unseal it," the boss commanded, as if it were the most obvious course of action imaginable.

Tim glanced at Tony, then tossed a quick look over his shoulder, up at the mezzanine, just to make sure Director Vance wasn't overhearing any of this.

"Unsealing the file…"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"It was a five-man unit. Who's left?" Gibbs asked.

Tony consulted the cold case file. "Well, up until two days ago, Corporal Malcolm Jefferson, and…" A pause. "Gunnery Sergeant William Hartmann," he finished. "Not a cold case anymore, boss."

Ellie quickly scanned through the electronic files, and pulled up their photos on the plasma. She jumped up from her chair to join Gibbs and Tony in front of the screen. "Corporal Malcolm Jefferson. Age 52. Unmarried, no dependents. Awarded the Silver Star for Conspicuous Gallantry in Action During Operation Desert Storm. Honorably discharged on July 17, 1991."

At that moment, Chaplain Melanie Burke walked past the bullpen; she'd been visiting a detainee in one of the holding cells. She waved a greeting to Tony and Gibbs, and was about to step into the elevator, when the photo of the handsome and proud African-American Marine on the plasma caught her attention. She back-pedalled and entered their space, staring intently at the screen.

"I know that face." Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "At least, he looks somewhat familiar. No…it couldn't be…how old is this photo?"

"It's from 1990. Is it someone you've seen recently?" Ellie asked.

"Could be…" Burke hesitated. "It's hard to tell. He has a beard, and his hair's longer."

"We have software that can age a person in a photo," Ellie remarked, pleased to be able to contribute to the conversation. She returned to her desk. "Why don't you tell me what your guy looks like, and I'll make the adjustments? Fire away."

"His beard is grey, and scraggly." A few keystrokes and the facial hair appeared. "Shoulder-length hair, wiry, salt & pepper grey… a few liver spots on the face… dark circles under the eyes…" Bishop worked the software, making each adjustment as Burke called them out.

"Yes. Yes, that's him," she whispered.

"Who?" Gibbs stepped forward.

"Eagle. He lives at the St. Christopher homeless shelter. I volunteer there 2 days a week. He was a Marine in the Gulf War." Tony and Ellie exchanged worried glances. Burke furrowed her brow and bit her lip. "Is he in trouble?" she asked, her voice full of concern.

"That depends. Everyone else in his unit is dead. That either makes him a suspect, or the next victim," Tony said.

Gibbs didn't want to upset Burke any further, and he sensed there was valuable information she could provide. "Chaplain, do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Of course, Agent Gibbs, I'd be happy to." He escorted Burke upstairs towards the conference room, and called back down to his team. "DiNozzo, check in with Abby. Find the evidence from the first three murders and get it to her to re-test." Tony bolted for the elevator.

"Boss? D'you want me to try to track down Eagle?" Tim asked.

"No need," Burke said. "He's at the shelter. Something upset him the other day, and he hasn't ventured out much since."

Gibbs shook his head. "Keep hacking, McGee. We need to know what's so incriminating that DoD thinks NCIS shouldn't know about it. Bishop, call Quantico, and arrange interviews with Hartmann's current team."

"On it," she responded, as Gibbs and Burke disappeared around the corner.

Tim smiled at her. "You've got the lingo down, I see."

She grinned. "I'm a mimic. It's one of the ways I learn."

"Ok, but if you're going to mimic Tony, be very careful. Gibbs won't tolerate anybody else doing Tony. He barely tolerates _Tony_ doing Tony." She laughed.

"I'm not joking."

* * *

Tony strode into Abby's lab, a box of evidence in his arms. She was staring intently through her electron microscope, hips swaying to the sound of Gothtronica. He stood behind her at a distance, admiring her rear end as it bopped back & forth. Without looking behind her, she became aware of his presence, and stood perfectly still.

"See anything you like, DiNozzo?"

He could hear the smile in her voice, and knew she wasn't angry with him. She hadn't teased him like this in a long while, and it pleased him more than he was willing to admit. He set down the box on the table behind her.

"Uh huh. Too bad you're wasting it on Smokey the Bear." She didn't appreciate the reference to the new man in her life, Burt Moore. She knew full well the team thought she could do much better. She had no intention of getting serious with him, but they didn't need to know that - it wasn't anyone else's business, after all.

She spun around and stuck her tongue out at him.

"Whatcha got for me?"

"Evidence from the three cold case murders. Not much here, by the looks of things. They never found the murder weapon. A few pieces of clothing, couple of cigarette butts, a partial shoe print. We're hoping you can lift some DNA off something - they came up empty when it was tested before."

"Well, if there's anything there, Major Mass Spec will find it," Abby asserted proudly.

"Hey, have you had a chance to test those two samples of gum from the crime scene?" Tony asked.

"Yeah. No match. The one found on the tree was Nicorette; the other one was Bubblicious. How old did you say that woman was?"

"I didn't. Probably older than she looked. Or acted, for that matter."

"Well, no DNA matches in the database to either sample, but I can tell you they came from different people."

"Huh. Ok I guess that rules out Violet as a suspect."

" _Violet_?" She grinned. "We had a cat named Violet when I was little."

Tony pursed his lips and looked askance, pondering this.

"Come to think of it, she did have a bit of a cat-walk. Hey. You believe in reincarnation, don't you?"

Abby grimaced and punched his arm playfully.

"Sorry. What about the shirt?

"Haven't had a chance to test it yet. I'm working cases for three different teams today. Trevor and Jaime both called in sick, so I'm really short on lab tech help. But I'm on it. Give me a couple of hours, ok?"

"Sure, Abs. You're just lucky it's me down here, and not Gibbs," Tony quipped.

She grinned confidently.

"Gibbs knows when to come down. His timing is impeccable. He'll come when I have results. Not before. Now get going, or he'll be mad at you for holding me up."

"When isn't he mad at me, these days? Thanks Abs." Tony yanked on one of her pigtails, and she gave him a hug and sent him on his way.

* * *

Gibbs ushered Chaplain Burke into the conference room, and they sat. He poured her a glass of water from the fountain in the corner, and pulled out his notepad.

"What can you tell me about Jefferson?"

"Jefferson?" she queried. "Oh, is that his name? Well, he's lived at the Mission ever since I can remember, and probably since long before I arrived. He's a good man, Agent Gibbs, but he's had a difficult life. He was engaged to be married when he was deployed to the Gulf, and his fiancee broke it off before he got home from his first tour. I don't think he ever really got over it. She simply got tired of waiting for him, or so the 'Dear John' letter said.

"Also, his unit was stationed in Kuwait, and they were involved in one particular engagement that left him very troubled. I'd say he was really quite traumatized by it. I'm no psychologist, but I've seen enough diagnosed cases to guess he suffers from PTSD. He has moments when he gets angry and lashes out at people for seemingly no reason, and then he feels terrible remorse afterwards. He'll suddenly start crying, out of the blue. He'll go into a funk and not talk to anyone for days - just lies on his bunk and stares at the ceiling. It's worrying, but there's really no way to help him - he'd qualify for psychological evaluation and treatment, as a veteran, but he refuses to admit there's anything wrong or to accept any help." She paused, gazing out the window thoughtfully. "I see it a lot. Too often. Men and women who come home broken, desperately in need of counselling, but so afraid of appearing weak that they can't, or won't, reach out for help. They end up on the streets, because they can't integrate back into society. That's why I decided to get involved with St. Christopher. They'll talk to me. I'm not a 'shrink' They really need more help than I can give, but at least it's something…" She trailed off.

"What do you know about this mission his unit was engaged in?" Gibbs asked.

She returned her gaze to him. "I can't share anything specific, Agent Gibbs. Much of what Eagle has told me is bound by the seal of confession. He trusts me implicitly not to share those details, and I won't. But I can tell you that he's been trying to atone for it ever since. He helps out at the Mission, and he looks out for the younger ones. Tries to steer them on a good path, keep them out of trouble."

"Did he ever talk about the other men in his unit? What was the dynamic?"

She shook her head. "I don't have many details, and like I said before, there's a lot I'm unable to comment on because of how the information came to me."

Gibbs sighed in frustration. "What about his C.O.? Come on Chaplain, there must be _something_ you can tell me."

She bit her lip. "There was some tension there. Apparently he had a problem with the colour of Eagle's skin." She sighed, and glanced back out the window. "But if you're asking whether I think Eagle could've killed Hartmann, the answer is most definitely not. He's renounced the military and all it stands for. The last thing he would ever do is take another life. Love thine enemy, the Bible says. And he tries, he really does. I can't say how close he gets, but he does try."

Gibbs made a few more notes.

Burke glanced at the clock. "Is there anything else you want to know, Agent Gibbs? I'm due back at the chapel in a few minutes for vespers."

"Yeah, just one more question. Can you account for Jefferson's whereabouts between midnight Wednesday and 08:00 Thursday morning?"

She went pale. "I wasn't at the Mission that night. So, no, I'm afraid I can't. But like I said, Eagle is a peace-loving man, even if he does have a bit of a temper sometimes. He would never actually get violent with anyone. He's just very conflicted."

As Gibbs escorted her out of the conference room, she suddenly turned and took his arm. "I'm worried about him, Gibbs. Whoever did this, could be after him next. I know he's a highly trained Marine, but he's sworn off violence, so he'd be an easy target. You have to find this killer."

Gibbs nodded. "We're on it, Chaplain. We've got some fresh evidence that might help lead us in the right direction. But we need to figure out why these murders have started up again after such a long break. If you think of anything else, you call me," he urged her. "We're going to need to talk to Jefferson, get his side of the story."

"Well, you may need my help with that. He tends not to do well when it comes to dealing with authority figures. Ever since he shed the uniform, he's been very reluctant to trust anyone."

"You think you could persuade him to come in?" Gibbs asked.

She pondered this. "I think so. It'll take some doing, but I think I can convince him that it's for his own safety."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The elevator dinged, and Tony stepped out and rounded the corner into the bullpen. Bishop was on the phone, interviewing one of Hartmann's co-workers. Tim was staring intently at his computer screen.

"Oh wow!" he exclaimed.

"Find something juicy, McHacker?" Tony asked, sidling over to Tim's desk and leaning over his shoulder.

"Yeah. I think I know why the DoD wanted to suppress this file," Tim responded, his voice full of concern.

"Do tell," Tony encouraged.

"Well…shouldn't we wait for Gibbs?" Tim asked.

"We've got a serial killer back in circulation, Tim. No time to waste. Go!"

Bishop finished her phone call, and they gathered in front of the plasma. With a few keystrokes, Tim put his findings up on the main screen, and began to walk the two agents through them.

"Ok. Hartmann's unit was assigned to investigate an Iraqi family living in Kuwait, Younadam and Khannah Hamdani, their son, Tazeem, and daughter, Yasmine. The family had money - Younadam had owned a chain of grocery stores in Mosul and Basra, and headquartered in Baghdad. They were suspected of aiding and abetting the Iraqi invasion force, possibly using their wealth to finance the acquisition of guns and ordnance."

Ellie nodded. "A lot of wealthy families used their fortune to buy their family's safety in that war."

Tim continued. "When Hartmann confronted him about the allegations, Younadam denied any involvement. Instead of working to gather more intel, Hartmann just lost it, and ordered his unit to kill the family and torch their home. Apparently Hartmann had a reputation in the area, everyone was afraid of him, so none of the locals spoke up when NIS came in to investigate, in case they'd be next.

"There were reports of a lot of discord among the team members after that - a couple of them came forward with information, but there was no concrete proof, and with no witnesses willing to testify, the investigation didn't go any further. It wasn't long afterwards that the unit was repatriated, and everyone except Hartmann took a discharge.

"NIS decided to look into the allegations against the Hamdani family, and they figured out that Younadam had been telling the truth - they were actually Assyrian Christians, and they weren't sympathetic to the Iraqi invaders. That was why they'd moved to Kuwait, it was more friendly towards their faith. Hartmann must've had friends in high places, because there's no record of any disciplinary action being taken against him.

"Ok. So someone at DoD wants to save Hartmann's ass, not to mention avoiding a full-on NCIS investigation, and seals the file on the case. How does all this help us solve the murders?" Tony puzzled.

"Well, here's where it really gets interesting," Tim answered gleefully. "The son, Tazeem, wasn't there during the attack. He was 18 years old at the time, and was attending George Washington University, right here in DC. He never returned to Kuwait. He settled in Georgetown after finishing his degree, and then moved to Toronto, Canada shortly after 9/11.

Tim pulled up a college photo of a young Iraqi male onto the screen.

"Motive AND opportunity. Nice work!" Tony praised.

"I've been reading up on that symbol that was carved on the backs of the victims, the Chi Rho," Ellie added. "It's an ancient Christian symbol. The killer was sending a message - maybe there's a connection with the family being Christians?"

"What did Tazeem study at college?" Tony asked.

Tim checked the file. "He majored in Business. But he did a minor in Classics and Ancient Greek." Tony cocked his head and made a 'well, there you go' gesture.

Just then, Burke and Gibbs came down the stairs from the conference room. Burke had overheard Bishop's comment about the symbol, and she went ghostly pale.

They brought Gibbs up to speed on the DoD information, and all agreed that Tazeem looked like a strong suspect in the cold case.

"That still doesn't explain Hartmann's murder," Gibbs reasoned.

"Actually, it might," Ellie commented, staring at her screen. She jumped out of her chair and grabbed the clicker, pointing it at the plasma to bring up Tazeem's Canadian driver's licence. "Tazeem is back in the country. He's been living in Toronto for the past 10 years. He crossed the border at Niagara Falls 4 days ago. Customs & Immigration recorded the reason for travel as 'visiting friends'".

"Friends", Tony quipped, making air quotes as the word dripped from his lips.

"Put out a bolo," Gibbs barked. Ellie scampered back to her desk to do so.

"DiNozzo, you and Chaplain Burke go the Mission, find Jefferson, and bring him into protective custody before Tazeem finds him. McGee, Bishop, go talk to Mrs. Hartmann." Tony looked quizzical, glancing from the boss to the Chaplain and back again.

"As I said, Agent Gibbs, it won't be easy to get Eagle to come in, but I'll do my best. He may have renounced violence, but he's still a Marine at heart. He'll see it as cowardice," Burke reasoned.

"Well, Chaplain, I'm sure you can use some of that angelic charm of yours to convince him," Gibbs smiled, and took a last swig of his coffee before tossing the empty cup into the trash. He breezed out towards the elevator - it was time to check on Ducky's autopsy results.

* * *

This was to be Ellie's first time speaking with a grieving widow, and she wasn't looking forward to it. At NSA, she hadn't had to deal with people outside her cadre very often. Sitting on the floor, pondering puzzles and living inside her own head, she didn't have to worry about other people's feelings and emotions. It was the one part of the job she wasn't sure she was cut out for. But Ellie Bishop had never shrunk from a challenge, so she gritted her teeth and stepped out of the car outside the sprawling bungalow in a quiet Georgetown neighbourhood.

McGee looked perfectly relaxed as they made their way up the drive.

"How do you do it?" she asked nervously.

"Do what?"

"How do you stay so calm? I mean, this woman has just lost her husband. It's going to be really awkward. She's going to be a basket case."

"You might be surprised," Tim replied. Ellie looked at him quizzically. "I've seen all kinds of different reactions. There's no way to predict what you're going to get. You just have to roll with it."

"Roll with it," she repeated.

"Yeah. You know. Go with the flow. Take your cue from the other person. Generally, it's best to stay neutral. You can express sympathy, but then stick to the questions you came to ask. People generally rise to the occasion." He paused. "And of course, when it's the wife, she's always a suspect."

Wow. That came from left field. Ellie hadn't even considered the possibility that Hartmann's wife could be involved in this situation.

"I thought Tazeem was our prime suspect?"

"Rule Eight, Bishop. Never assume."

"Ok, but what possible motive could she have?"

"That's what we're here to find out," Tim remarked. He rang the doorbell.

"Right." She shook herself, preparing for the worst.

The door opened to reveal an attractive 50-something brunette, in yoga pants and a loose-fitting t-shirt. She wore little makeup, and Ellie noted that she probably didn't really need it, although her face looked tired and drawn. The woman smiled at her.

"You must be the NCIS agents. I've been expecting you."

"Yes. I'm special agent Timothy McGee, this is Probationary Agent Eleanor Bishop." They showed their badges.

"Please, come in." She ushered them into the living room. Tim surveyed the space - not a single thing was out of place. The house almost didn't look lived-in; it reminded him of a hotel. French provincial furnishings, and neutral colour schemes throughout. It made him feel uncomfortable; awkward.

"We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Hartmann," Tim began.

"Thank you," she sighed, resignedly. Ellie found this odd - she didn't exactly seem heartbroken over the death of her husband. Glancing around the room, Ellie noted plenty of photographs, of what appeared to be various family gatherings, but not a single one of the Hartmanns together. She glanced sideways at Tim, who had picked up the same vibe.

"Mrs. Hartmann, when did you last see your husband?"

"Around 05:00 on Thursday morning. He got up early to play nine holes at the club, and was heading in to work after that."

"Did he say who he was going to play with?"

"No, but that wasn't unusual. Bill and I never kept tabs on each other."

There was something in her voice that caused a chill to slide down Ellie's back. She hoped and prayed that she and Jake never got to the point of not caring where the other one was going to be.

"He liked to play by himself - that's why he went early in the morning. He never did play well with others…" she added.

"Did your husband still have his KA-BAR combat knife?

"Yes," she replied warily.

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes, it's over there in the sideboard." She motioned behind her.

"Do you mind if we take a look at it?" Tim pressed.

"Of course." Juliet Hartmann walked over to the sideboard, and retrieved a wooden box with an intricate carving on the outside. It looked old and weathered, but had been recently polished up. She handed the box to Tim, who took it from her with a gloved hand, opened it, and examined the knife carefully. There was no visible blood on it.

"We'll need to take this back to our lab for testing." He returned the knife to the box and set it down on the sofa next to him. Mrs. Hartmann stiffened.

"I don't understand. You think my husband was killed with his own knife?" she asked incredulously, focusing on Ellie. "How would it have gotten back here, if that were the case?" There was a long pause, as she connected the dots. "You think I killed my husband," she uttered breathlessly.

Ellie glanced at Tim nervously, unsure how to respond. She had to fight to keep her jaw from dropping as Tim responded matter-of-factly,

"There were three previous murders, Mrs. Hartmann. We need to rule out this knife in those other cases." He bypassed her statement completely, focusing instead on the cold case; Ellie cringed inwardly, but she secretly had to admire the tactic.

"I see. And what would be my motive for killing Bill's team, pray tell?" Juliet leaned back and crossed her arms, staring defiantly at Tim.

"I have no idea, Mrs. Hartmann. I didn't accuse you of killing anyone. Should I be looking for a motive?"

The line of questioning had produced the desired effect. At this point, Ellie just wanted to crawl across the floor to the door and flee; the tension in the room was palpable. Tim, however, remained unfazed, secretly pleased that his gambit had worked. Mrs. Hartmann uncrossed her arms and legs simultaneously, suddenly aware of the non-verbal cues she was sending. She smiled disaffectedly, and let out a nervous giggle.

"No, of course not. I didn't even know them really. Bill had the highest regard for his team. He respected them. They were all pros, he often said that. He never seemed concerned, but I always worried that whoever killed those boys would come after my husband one day."

"One last question, Mrs. Hartmann. Can you think of anyone who might want to kill your husband? Did he have any enemies?"

She thought for a moment.

"Enemies is such a strong word, Agent McGee. But there was one fellow. Jeffries… Jefferson… something like that. He was added to the unit a bit later than the others, and he never really fit in with the group. Bill said he had trouble with him, he wasn't disciplined like the others. Something happened over in Iraq…something Bill never wanted to talk about. But he once said he wouldn't be surprised if Jefferson 'came after him' because of it. They'd had words over it, a number of times. I guess he didn't like his orders. Bill never seemed worried, so I didn't think anything more of it. He was a Marine, after all; I figured he could take care of himself." She sniffed. "I guess I was wrong."

Making their way back to the car a few minutes later, McGee pulled out his cell phone and called Tony to inform him of Mrs. Hartmann's comment about Jefferson. True, Chaplain Burke was usually a pretty good judge of character. But if there was any possibility that Eagle was the murderer, as opposed to the next potential victim, Tony would need to know.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Ducky and Jimmy had been working in painful silence for some minutes. They'd been together long enough that words were unnecessary, and it wasn't actually unusual for them to work with non-verbal cues; but today, there was tension in the air, and it was almost palpable.

Jimmy didn't know what he'd done wrong, but he sensed that his mentor was suppressing a great deal of annoyance with him. Part of him wanted to just come out and ask Dr. Mallard what was wrong, but the other part, the part that believed ignorance was bliss, was telling him to leave well enough alone. In the end, the decision was made for him.

"I've got a bone to pick with you, Mr. Palmer," Ducky chided, staring intently at Lt. Col. Hartmann's x-rays with his back to the junior ME.

Jimmy sucked in air, and focused intently on his work - he was sewing up the Y-incision, trying his best to make it as neat as possible.

"Did I do something wrong, Dr. Mallard?" He asked innocently.

"There is only one thing that annoys me more than incompetence."

Oh boy. This was bad.

"Um…what would that be, Doctor?"

" _Feigned_ incompetence." Ducky almost spat out the word.

Jimmy stopped his work, regarded Ducky cautiously, and blinked.

"I-I don't understand."

"Don't give me that malarky. You understand perfectly well. But you are allowing Gibbs and his team to think that you don't."

Jimmy blinked again. He remained mute, and utterly perplexed, so Ducky pressed on, but softened his tone just a bit.

"I understand that you want me to feel useful. But really, Jimmy, you are perfectly capable of handling all of this yourself."

At last, Jimmy realized where this line of questioning was headed. "That's not true Doctor. I'm still not sure of myself in many situations, and I - "

"Dear boy, how do you expect ever to gain that self-confidence if you keep deferring to me? Part of my job is to make myself redundant, by training you to function in my absence, without assistance. If you cannot do that, it would appear that I've not done my job very well."

"No! Doctor Mallard, I - "

"Please, Jimmy! Stop patronizing me!" Ducky pleaded, cutting him off abruptly.

Just then, the autopsy bay doors opened with a swoosh, and Gibbs strode in.

"Whaddya got, Duck?"

"Mr. Palmer?" Ducky nodded in Jimmy's direction. Clearly this argument would need to be continued at a later time. He began the debriefing.

"Um. Yes. Right. Cause of death was a single knife wound to the throat, which clipped the jugular artery. Petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes suggests that death was not instantaneous."

"He bled out," Gibbs surmised. "Fits with the evidence at the crime scene. That shirt was soaked in blood."

"Correct. Also, notice the angle of the cut, which suggests the killer was right-handed. The knife was drawn from left to right."

"What about the symbol that was carved on his back?" Gibbs inquired.

Jimmy looked over to Ducky, waiting for him to jump in. Ducky raised his eyebrows, but when nothing came out of Jimmy's mouth, the older man rolled his eyes and took over.

"Ah yes, the Labarum, or Chi-Rho, also known as a Christogram. It's believed by some that the Emperor Constantine saw the symbol in the sky just before an important battle, and heard a voice that said, 'By this sign, conquer' - 'In hoc signo vinces', resulting in him adopting it as the symbol for his army. It's an ancient version of the Christian cross, made by combining the greek letters Chi (he traced over the X on the body with his finger) and Rho (likewise he traced the P).

"Ducky…" Gibbs gently brought him back to reality. "How is it related to our case? Why carve it in his flesh?"

"Clearly, it's a message. But to whom, I cannot say. The remaining targets, perhaps?"

"Can we say definitively that this is the same murderer that committed our two cold cases?" Ducky shook his head.

"I'm not prepared to go that far, Jethro. Certainly, there are similarities, including cause of death. But unless Abby can lift some DNA from the old evidence and match it to that in this case, I'm afraid all we have is conjecture."

"There was one more thing, Agent Gibbs…" Jimmy added hesitantly, not wanting to step on Ducky's toes. "Normally you'd expect to see a fairly horizontal cut across the throat - it's the most efficient way, and the way military personnel are taught to use a combat knife, which we believe was the murder weapon." Now he had their attention. Gaining confidence, he pressed on. "But I noticed that the blade was angled downwards as it was drawn across…" He demonstrated on his own throat. "A Marine would never do it that way. It's too tentative. It didn't completely sever the artery. If I had to guess, I'd also say the killer was shorter than our victim, which would also explain the angle."

Ducky beamed with pride. "A very astute observation, Mr. Palmer. It would be worth verifying the details of the other murders - that might shed some light on who our killer might be, and whether we are dealing with a copy-cat."

"Thanks, Duck." Gibbs headed out, but stopped in his tracks in the doorway. He spun around. "That's good work, Palmer," he added, and the ghost of a smile played across his lips.

Jimmy beamed from ear to ear. Ducky patted him on the back, peeling off his gown, cap and gloves, and tossing them in the bin. He glanced at the clock - he'd have just enough time on his way home to stop in at the tea shop before they closed. He disappeared into the back room to clean himself up, and when he returned ten minutes later, Jimmy was still standing over the body, gazing off into space.

Ducky donned his hat and coat, and waited to see if Jimmy would move. Finally, Palmer became aware of his mentor's presence, and was jolted out of his reverie.

"I presume that I can leave all of this in your capable hands, eh Jimmy?" he smiled proudly.

"Yes, Doctor!" Jimmy replied gleefully. "Goodnight, Doctor."

As the sliding door closed, Jimmy let out a whoop.

* * *

Abby sat painting her nails a darker shade of black, as she waited to see whether any useable DNA would be forthcoming from the various shreds of clothing retrieved from the evidence locker in the cold case files. There wasn't much to go on - the samples were quite degraded, and had been further damaged from previous testing. She was trying a new technique - Touch DNA - where a tiny sample of epithelial cells might prove fruitful in producing a viable sample.

She heard the ding of the elevator, and alarm bells went off. Gibbs. He couldn't be here. Not yet. She didn't have any results to share. Something was wrong with the universe! But just as the door to her lab slid open with a swoosh, Major Mass Spec started chirping, and information popped up on her screen.

"Gibbs! You're just in time!" She jumped up from her desk and trotted over to check on the results. Gibbs sidled up behind her and set down a Caf Pow on the table by her elbow. She tapped the keyboard with a few brief strokes.

"What am I looking at, Abs?" Gibbs asked.

Without missing a beat, she responded, "Two distinct DNA samples. One from the victim, obviously, and the other, more than likely, from our cold case killer." She stared at the screen, and tapped a few more keystrokes. "But…"

Gibbs craned his neck. "But…?"

She sighed. "The second sample is incomplete. The genetic chain isn't fully formed, so we can't tie it to anyone." She pouted. "I was SO close…"

"Not often I come down here and you haven't got at least something for me."

"I know! You shouldn't be here, Gibbs." She made a shooing motion with her hand. He chuckled, and reached for the Caf Pow. She slapped his hand. "I need that - it's fuel."

He kissed her on the cheek, but it didn't cheer her up. She pouted as she watched him exit the lab. Looking down, she realized with dismay that her brand new nail polish had chipped, too. She reached over to the shelf and grabbed Bert, hugging him close. There had to be _something_ useful she could get from that old evidence. She refused to be defeated. Back to the drawing board…


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

St. Christopher's Episcopal Church was a rambling, three-story building that in some ways reminded Tony more of a cross between a school and an office building, than a house of worship. The sanctuary was actually on the third floor, and he imagined it must afford a grand view of the tree-lined streets below.

Their destination, however, was the second floor - they approached from the back, parking on the street at Butterworth Place. A large, sharply lettered sign above the door read 'The Living Water Ministry'.

Tony had spent more time than he cared to remember in places like this during his days in Baltimore and Philly, as a beat cop. Everyone always clammed up when the cops showed up, it seemed, but there was always that one guy who was willing to spill, in exchange for leniency on some minor misdemeanor he assumed the cops already knew about. Most of the time, they didn't, but they'd let him think they did, in order to procure the information. It was a system that worked well, even if it was a bit sleazy.

It reminded him of turning a light on in a cockroach-infested apartment. The moment they walked in, everyone would scurry off into the corners, out of sight. This time, there was mild hesitation - they clearly recognized Chaplain Burke, and it seemed she was someone they trusted. But they were getting mixed messages, seeing the badge glinting from his waistband and the double shoulder-holster peeking out from underneath his jacket.

They stood scanning their surroundings for a couple of moments, and then Burke spotted Eagle. He was sitting in the corner, nursing a cup of coffee, and didn't seem to have noticed her presence. But with the room suddenly turning quiet, he lifted his head, and catching sight of her, he motioned for her to come over. His face took on an expression of mild alarm, as he noticed Tony accompanying her. He stood.

DiNozzo was struck by the man's sheer size. Although homeless, he evidently managed to find enough to eat, and stood nearly as tall as Tony himself. He was incredibly muscular, and Burke appeared dwarfed standing by his side. The character of John Coffey in The Green Mile immediately came to Tony's mind.

"Need to talk in private, Chapl'n". His eyes flitted nervously from her to Tony and back again.

"It's ok, Eagle. This is Special Agent DiNozzo with NCIS. He's on your side." Tony flashed his creds. Jefferson scoffed.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I don't talk to fuzz. Been burned too many times. I'll talk to you."

She regarded Tony apologetically. He nodded, and she led Eagle into the back dorm, where several rows of bunks lined the walls. Tony could see their shadows, and could tell the conversation was somewhat animated, but he didn't get a vibe that suggested she was in any danger - he seemed upset, and at one point Tony thought it sounded as though he might actually be crying.

Tony leaned in to see what he could hear of their conversation.

"I feel like I've failed him, Chapl'n," Eagle wailed softly. "I just don't know how to get through to him. He's goin' down a bad path, is all, and one of these days he's gonna turn up dead."

"I know it's upsetting, Eagle. But a man has to choose his own path. And Darius is a man now. We can't choose that path for him. All we can do is set the best example we know how, and leave the rest in God's hands. I assume you've been praying for him?"

He nodded. "Every single night, ma'am." He fingered the shiny black beads of the rosary that hung about his neck, just underneath his tattered shirt. "Don't seem like it's helping much."

"Never underestimate the power of prayer, Eagle. We don't know what the higher purpose is here. Maybe Darius will turn around, maybe he won't. But you can rest assured all will work for the greater good. Maybe someone ELSE will be saved by watching you and what you're doing for Darius."

"Yes'm." He gazed at the floor dejectedly.

"What did you do to your arm, Eagle?" she asked, noting what looked like a cut from a knife near Jefferson's elbow.

He glanced at it and shrugged. "It ain't nothin'. Don't even recall now. Musta caught it on somethin' when I was dumpster-divin' last night."

 _Dumpster-diving. That explained the strange odour, Tony thought to himself. It struck him as tragic that a once-proud Marine would spend his evenings digging through trash for…for what, exactly?_

She furrowed her brow. "It looks angry. Could be infected. You should get it looked at."

He shook his head. "It's fine, ma'am, honest. It don't hurt none."

It wasn't often that they had more than one serious suspect in a murder investigation. Like Gibbs, Tony didn't believe in coincidences. If Jefferson was the murderer, the synchronicity of Tazeem's movements around the time of the murders was uncanny. But if Tazeem were guilty, it was equally coincidental that Jefferson had argued with Hartmann AND sustained a cut with a knife, all within the relevant time window. Of course, it was always possible that they were BOTH guilty, Tony mused.

Tony was well aware of the significance of the wound, and the phone call he'd received from Tim as they'd arrived only served to incriminate him further. It was time to bring this conversation to a close, and get this man into custody - even if it were only protective custody.

In the time he'd known Burke, she'd always proved an excellent judge of character, but Tony still preferred to make up his own mind about people rather than relying on others' instincts. His own instincts, however, were telling him that Burke was right about one thing - Jefferson did not trust authority figures, and he would need to handle this very delicately if he were going to secure Eagle's cooperation. Since the only evidence he had against the man was circumstantial, he didn't want to tip his hand just yet. Eagle didn't need to know he was a potential suspect.

Tony stepped forward into the ward. "Mr. Jefferson, your C.O., Lt. Col. Hartmann, was murdered a couple of nights ago." He paused to judge Eagle's reaction. There was none. Tony pressed on. "There's a possibility your life may be in danger. If you were attacked recently, that suggests we may be right about that. We'd like to get you back to the Navy Yard, where you'll be safe."

Eagle sniffed. "Don't need nobody watchin' out for me. I survived two tours in the Gulf. I can survive the streets of DC."

"Well, we also need you to look at some photos, and see if you can remember anything that might help us find the killer."

Eagle sneered at Tony "Why would I wanna do that?" Tony regarded him, perplexed at the reaction. "Man treated me like a piece of shit. I ain't gonna cry no tears if he's gone." He suddenly became aware of Burke's disapproving look, and back-pedalled slightly. "Call it… divine justice. He was an evil man, and that's the God's truth."

"Eagle, someone took justice into their own hands instead of leaving it to the Lord. And that's wrong. And we need to help NCIS, because if we don't, that person might take yet another life. And no matter what you say to the contrary, that life could very well be yours. After all, you can't stay awake 24/7, now, can you, Eagle?"

Tony could see the tension slowly leaving Jefferson's shoulders as the Chaplain spoke. She definitely knew how to get through to him, he had to give her that. Jefferson nodded.

"Ok, Chapl'n. I guess you got a point there." He regarded Tony nervously. "But I ain't sittin' in the back seat."

"Thank you," she smiled, touching his arm softly. "And while you're at the Navy Yard, maybe Dr. Mallard can take a look at that cut."

* * *

Tony was very glad they had taken a fleet car. Jefferson certainly wasn't the cleanest, or nicest smelling person he'd ever had to transport to the Navy Yard, and just the thought of the plush seats in his precious Mustang coming into contact with those dirty clothes was enough to turn his stomach.

True to his word, Eagle had insisted on riding shotgun, and Tony wished he could hold his nose, but unfortunately traffic was heavy and he had to keep both hands firmly on the wheel. Burke seemed oblivious - he supposed that went with the territory when one volunteered at a homeless mission. Jefferson remained silent throughout the journey. Tony guessed he hadn't had too many car rides since getting discharged, unless one counted various rides in the back of police cruisers.

DiNozzo had taken it upon himself to look up 'Eagle' in the system, and had found more than one misdemeanour, usually for being loud, obnoxious and threatening towards others. A bit of petty theft, and one assault of a fellow resident at the shelter - a whack over the head with a baseball bat. All of it dated back a few years; his record since 2007 was spotless.

As they made their way down Sicard Street and pulled up to the main gate at the Navy Yard, Eagle caught sight of the two stalwart guards and instinctively drew himself up straight in his seat. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony noticed his arm twitch, as he came close to lifting it into a salute, then thought better of it and brought it back down to his side. Tony flashed his badge, and the guard peered into the car. He waved to his partner on the other side of the gate, and the barred doors slowly opened.

"A bit like a jail, ain't it, ma'am?" Eagle quipped nervously.

Burke chuckled. "Don't worry, Eagle. Nobody's going to clip your wings."

* * *

Gibbs had asked Tony and Burke to bring Eagle to Interrogation; but first they made a stop in autopsy.

Ducky carefully swabbed the cut on the man's arm, making certain to explain to him that they'd be doing DNA testing on it. He cleaned the wound, put antiseptic cream on it, and bandaged it up carefully. While he was at it, he gave Jimmy the unenviable task of giving Jefferson a wipe down, as best he could manage. At the end of it all, it looked rather incongruous - his exposed skin was now clean, but his clothes still stunk and were covered in dirt and grime.

While they were tending to his wound, Tony chatted on his cell just outside the doorway, giving Gibbs an update on their interview at the Mission, and letting him know about Eagle's nervousness.

"There might be something there, boss. Then again, it might be nothing. He's jumpy. But Burke seems convinced he couldn't have committed a murder. He gave a DNA sample and didn't complain about it, so there's that."

"All right. When you're done there, tell Ducky to come up to Observation. Maybe he can give us a read on this guy."

Jimmy dropped the swab into a baggie and took it down to Abby for testing. As Burke and Tony escorted Eagle through the halls of NCIS, he stiffened up considerably. It was a visceral reaction, and DiNozzo could tell the man felt out of his element and nervous. Reading the sign outside the door, Jefferson bristled.

"I thought you said I was here for protection!"

Before Tony could respond, Burke had inserted herself between them and quickly defused the situation. "It's just a formality, Eagle. They need to talk to everyone who had any connection with Lt. Col. Hartmann, in order to get as much information as possible to help them find his killer. And they have to have it all on record, it's SOP - that's why they need to use this room. You're not in trouble. Don't worry!" she soothed. At this, his shoulders relaxed. He trusted Burke implicitly, Tony noted.

He opened the door, and Burke led Jefferson into the room. They sat down together, and she chatted with him softly while Tony went to get Gibbs. He ran into him in the hallway, followed closely by Bishop and Ducky, who stepped into Observation.

As Gibbs entered the room and Burke stepped out, Tony's phone rang, and Gibbs motioned to him to take it. "I got this, DiNozzo." Gibbs sensed that having more than one person in the room might spook Jefferson. He knew how he was going to handle this, and having a civilian in the room would not do at all.

"At ease, Corporal." He pulled out the chair and sat down, plopping a file folder onto the table in front of him.

"Yes sir," Eagle replied, but his body remained stiff.

"We're just talkin' here, Jefferson," he reassured him. "You're the only one left from your unit. Seems like someone's out to get you guys. Anything you can tell us will be helpful." Jefferson nodded.

Gibbs pulled out a photo from the file folder he'd brought with him, and placed it in front of Jefferson. It was one of the crime scene photos, showing Hartmann on his stomach, his back exposed to show the Chi-Rho symbol.

"What can you tell me about this symbol, Corporal? You ever seen it before?"

He stared at the picture intently. "Yeah."

"Where?"

"Over the door of the house…" he trailed off, suddenly realizing he'd said too much.

"What house? You mean the Hamdanis' house?" Eagle's eyes widened. "It's ok, Jefferson. We know about the raid. But only the _official_ story. What _really_ happened over there?"

Eagle shook his head. "I can't. I took an oath that I wouldn't say nothin', and I'm a man of my word. It was bad. Real bad. That's all I'm gonna say."

Gibbs looked through his notes. "You get along with your C.O., Corporal?"

Eagle cast a panicked glance up at the one-way mirror, uncertain who might be watching on the other side. "Not the best, sir. He didn't like me much. Called me a mother-fuckin' nigger."

Behind the glass, in Observation, Burke closed her eyes and shook her head. "Language, Eagle! Language!"

Ducky chuckled. "I should have thought you'd heard much worse than that, working as you do with Naval personnel on a daily basis, Chaplain."

"Oh yes, I have. But I don't often hear it coming from Eagle. He tries to set a good example for the younger men at the Mission, and since we're based in a church, he's usually very aware and avoids the potty mouth. It's just a bit of a shock to hear it coming from him."

"Witnesses saw you arguing with Hartmann the night before he died. What was that about?"

Eagle swallowed hard. "Golf club is my spot. It's where I go to feel useful. They like me there, and I like helpin' out. Then it all gets ruined when the Colonel shows up. I can't hang out there if he's gonna be around. I wanted him to go. But he said I had no business bein' there, on account of bein' a 'nigger'. So we had words."

"You and he have more than just words?" Gibbs pressed. Eagle glanced down and fingered the string on the edge of his coat. He didn't say a thing, and there was a long, painful silence. "I can wait all day for an answer." Gibbs leaned back onto the back two legs of the chair, and glanced up at the camera, silently making the point that Eagle's non-answer was telling.

"No, sir. I never laid a hand on him. And that's the God's honest truth, sir. Can I go now?"

Gibbs stood up. "Maybe you didn't get the memo, Corporal. Someone's killing off your team. You could be next. Unless you know something we don't?"

Eagle pulled himself up straight, clearly offended. "Don't know nothin'. I just don't like closed-in spaces." It dawned on Gibbs then that Burke could be right - this man might be suffering from PTSD, and feeling claustrophobic in the small interrogation room. But something was off - his gut told him so.

"Wait here," he ordered, stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door. Tony was waiting for him.

"Boss, that was Abby on the phone. She didn't need to do the DNA test on Jefferson's blood sample. He's type B, and the other samples are O positive and A neg, so it looks like he was telling the truth; that injury didn't happen at our crime scene."

Gibbs was fairly convinced that Eagle was innocent, and that meant he was quite likely a walking target. But his gut had been failing him lately, and he felt the need to check in with Ducky. The ME was the only one who would not read anything into his uncertainty.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Tony wondered what the Autopsy Gremlin could possibly want. He didn't want to meet in the sub-basement, instead asking DiNozzo to rendezvous with him outside, in front of the nearby hot dog cart. Tony caught sight of him and waved. Jimmy had a coffee in his hand and was wearing a hat and sunglasses, as if he wanted to conceal his identity. It looked a little silly to be frank. Tony couldn't help himself.

"What's up, Black Lung?" he teased as he approached.

Jimmy frowned. "I'm not in the mood, Tony." Oh, man. This must be serious. DiNozzo ordered himself a latte, and joined his friend on a bench on the promenade, just outside the Navy Yard. They stared out through their shades across the Anacostia river, watching the tourists traipsing up and down the gangplank of the USS Barry museum ship. Tony took a sip of his coffee, and waited for Jimmy to tell him what was up. But Jimmy didn't know where to begin.

Finally Tony could stand the silence no longer, and he had to speak up. "Ok, Jimmy. I'm working on a case here, so I don't exactly have a lot of time. You know how Gibbs gets when he can't find me. What's up?"

Jimmy sighed. "It's Doctor Mallard. He's pushing me really hard these days. He wants me to take more of a lead role in some of these cases."

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?" Tony asked, perplexed.

"Yeah, I guess so." Jimmy took off his hat and wiped his brow.

"You're ready, Jimmy. You did it while Ducky was off after his heart attack. What's the problem now? You've already proved yourself." Tony had no idea what Jimmy could be so concerned about. He'd watched the young man come into his own over the past year, and had been quite impressed with how he'd stepped forward into Ducky's shoes and managed things. He'd even figured out how to handle Gibbs, and that was really saying something. Perhaps it would take Ducky actually retiring to give Jimmy the final push he needed?

"Oh, I know that." Palmer took another sip of coffee. "It just feels…awkward. I never know whether I'm overstepping my authority. I don't want Dr. Mallard to feel as though he's not needed around here. But…"

"But, he isn't." Tony finished for him.

Jimmy swallowed hard. "Well, not all the time. There's the odd occasion when I come across something I'm not sure how to handle, and it's great to be able to consult with him. But, yeah. Most of the time I could manage on my own."

Tony shifted in his seat and strung one leg across the other knee, so that he was almost facing Jimmy. "Ok, Palmer. Here's the thing you need to understand about people like Ducky. And Gibbs. They're the Yoda to your Luke Skywalker. They're the Jedi Master, you are the apprentice. Except now you're a Jedi in your own right. And nothing pleases the Jedi Master more than seeing his protégé use the Force well."

Jimmy looked at him incredulously. "Star Wars? Really, Tony?"

Tony shrugged. "Whatever works. It's true. Ducky's not going to be upset when you handle a case from start to finish without his help. He'll be proud of you. It reflects well on him - after all, he taught you everything he knows."

Jimmy pondered these words carefully. He stared out across the water. A heron, that had been sitting on a buoy in the water just outside the perimeter of the Barry, took off and made a long, low trajectory across the water towards the Tidal Basin. He followed him with his eyes. "Is that how it was with you and Gibbs?"

"Sure. Not really a fair comparison…I had a number of years of law enforcement experience already under my belt before I joined NCIS. But, yeah. I had to learn a whole new way of doing things when I got here. I was the Probie. That was hard to take, let me tell you," he added, under his breath. "At first I tried to adapt to his way of doing things. But after awhile I realized I had to find my own style. I brought some of what I'd learned in Baltimore to the table. I learned some things as I went along, on my own, too. Then when we got a new Probie I learned some more. But Gibbs gradually gave me more and more rope, let me take on more on my own.

"The difference between you and me, Palmer, is that I pushed for it. I knew Gibbs liked being the boss - hell, he even wanted everyone to CALL him 'boss'. But I also knew that I wasn't going to get ahead in this agency unless I took on more responsibility. I'm ambitious." He paused. "I WAS ambitious…" He trailed off.

Tony suddenly realized he was talking himself into a corner. He hadn't thought about those early days in a long while. Counseling Jimmy was making him realize that he'd lost the drive to get ahead. A spark of it had come back when E.J. was around, but that had been more a case of jealousy (and perhaps a bit of misogyny, if he were totally honest) than blind ambition. He'd been stuck in the SFA role for thirteen years. He'd passed up a plum promotion opportunity, and there was no guarantee that another one would ever be presented to him. And now he was being asked to counsel a young man, in his prime and with a wife (and soon, they'd recently learned, a baby) to support, on career advancement. The hypocrisy of the situation was ridiculous to him.

Jimmy was staring at him, and he suddenly realized he hadn't spoken for several minutes. "Sorry. Lost my train of thought for a second there. Anyway, the point is, Ducky WANTS you to push for more responsibility. If you don't, he'll think he's failed. He'll think you're not enjoying the job, and that you're just marking time until you can get another job somewhere else."

A look of mild alarm came over Jimmy's face. "N-no! I don't want to leave NCIS. You guys are like my family, and I really love my work," he protested.

"Well, yeah, Jimmy. I know that. But Ducky doesn't. Not really. Your circumstances have changed a lot since you started. A few months from now, your household budget is gonna double. You'll be looking to buy a house. You'll be trading in that jazzy car of yours for a mini-van. If you're not demonstrating any visible ambition in the field or in autopsy, the natural, logical conclusion Ducky's going to come to is that you're looking elsewhere because you feel there's no opportunity for advancement where you are."

Palmer thought for a moment. "Is that the logical conclusion that Gibbs has come to about you, Tony?"

Ouch. Was he that transparent? "This isn't about me, Autopsy Gremlin. It's about YOU. You don't need to worry about overshadowing Ducky. He's got nothing to prove to anyone. He's a legend. A man like Ducky doesn't face new challenges very often; he's seen virtually everything there is to see. Now, your success reflects on him. The better you are, the better he looks. It's that simple."

"But, who's doing the evaluating?" Jimmy puzzled. "Is it for Gibbs, or Director Vance, or…"

"Does it matter?" Tony interrupted. "Actually, it's for Ducky himself. He won't believe it's safe for him to leave until you have the self-confidence to prove to him that you don't need him anymore. He's like a mother bird pushing the baby out of the nest, and you're hanging onto the edge for dear life. Spread your wings and fly, little birdie."

Jimmy slung back the last of his coffee, and stood. The words had hit home. "Thanks, Tony. This really helped." He looked back at the main doors of the building behind them. "Let me know when you want me to give YOU this pep talk." And with that, he strode away, leaving Tony to ponder that thought.

Palmer was right, much as he hated to admit it. Somewhere around EJ's departure, Tony had lost the will to move on. He was stuck in a rut, he realized. And Gibbs wasn't exactly pushing him out of the nest, either. And that bothered him, more than he wanted to admit. WHY wasn't Gibbs pushing him?

Just the other day, Bishop had had it out with Gibbs about the very same thing. But that was different - that was about Kate. And Ziva. It was about 'that desk'. It kind of made sense. What didn't make sense was Gibbs just letting Tony be his sidekick ad infinitum. Then again, why did he need someone else to push him? Why wasn't he pushing himself? Maybe that was the better question.

His coffee had gone cold. He wasn't going to resolve this now, and Gibbs would be looking for him. He stood, tossed the half-full coffee cup in the garbage, and headed back towards the Navy Yard.

He needed to up his game. And he needed to have a chat with Gibbs. Or maybe Vance.

Or possibly his therapist.

* * *

Gibbs stepped into Observation, as Chaplain Burke was exiting with Bishop. "You were a little hard on him, Agent Gibbs," she scolded.

"You telling me how to do my job, Chaplain?" Gibbs groused.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied smoothly. "But I know Eagle. Pushing him like that is counter-productive. The harder you press, the more he'll clam up. Should I stick around just in case?" She smiled sweetly at him.

"That won't be necessary," Gibbs replied. "He's not under arrest, Chaplain. But he needs protection until we know for sure whether he's a target."

"If you can convince him to stay. Ok, I'll be at the Mission if you need me."

Ellie escorted her out, and shut the door behind them. Gibbs came over to stand beside Ducky in front of the glass, and they stared through at Jefferson. His hands were folded in front of him, and he was peering up and around the room, taking note of the camera and squinting into the overhead lights. His left knee bounced frantically up and down, and he licked his lips nervously.

"What's your take, Ducky?"

"Well, he's definitely a troubled soul, Jethro."

"He's hiding something."

"Agreed. But I believe Chaplain Burke's assessment is correct - he is not likely to be our killer."

"Well, I don't base my decisions on the opinion of Chaplains. I WILL accept your _professional_ opinion though. My gut's telling me the same thing."

"In point of fact, I believe the two of you have a lot in common, Jethro."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. "Oh? How do you figure that?"

"Jefferson is a man who holds himself to a higher standard of conduct than even the Marines can enforce. Chaplain Burke said that he was trying to atone for past sins, but that she couldn't say what those sins might be." Gibbs tilted his head, listening intently. "You know better than most what it is to live with a secret."

Ducky raised his chin and gave Gibbs a sidelong glance.

"Not the same thing at all, Duck. I've never once regretted what I did."

Ducky nodded. "Perhaps not. Nevertheless, when in the past the truth threatened to come out, you have reacted by defending yourself…rather vociferously, I might add. Jefferson is no different." Gibbs headed for the door, and then turned, with his hand on the handle, as Ducky added, "You won't be able to hold him here, Jethro. He's like a caged animal." Ducky gazed at Jefferson through the glass. "The best you can do is to have him followed."

"Can't spare the manpower, Ducky. If he decides to leave, he takes his chances." And with that, Gibbs left Ducky to ponder the similarities between the two men.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

As Tony headed back to the bullpen, he caught sight of Bishop escorting Chaplain Burke towards the elevator. Burke wasn't a therapist, but she'd helped him sort through his feelings once before, so perhaps she would have some insight to share about his career situation?

"Chaplain, can I walk you out?" he interjected, much to Ellie's surprise. "I'd like to bounce something off you," he added hastily, as if needing an excuse.

"Of course, Tony." She turned to Bishop. "It was nice meeting you, Ellie. Thank you for looking after Eagle for me. You'll call me if there's any trouble, won't you?"

Bishop smiled. "Of course! Thank you, Chaplain."

Tony motioned for the Chaplain to go ahead of him into the elevator. Once the doors had closed and they had begun to descend, in classic Gibbs fashion he flipped the emergency switch, stopping the car in between floors. The lights dimmed.

She gave him a surprised look. "I don't think we know each other well enough for this, Agent DiNozzo," she teased.

He let out a guffaw. "Around here, this is about the only way to have a truly private conversation with someone. Little trick I learned from Gibbs."

"How can I help? Is this about the case?"

"No. Actually, it's about me. About why I'm still here."

She stared at him blankly. An invitation to keep talking.

"I'm going to be 47 years old in three months. I've been Gibbs' right-hand man for thirteen years. So you see my problem."

She smiled. "You want more."

He nodded. Then shook his head. "Yes. No. I'm not sure. I don't know what I want anymore. I'm confused. I'm comfortable where I am. And there's this niggling voice telling me that's a problem. I shouldn't be comfortable. Comfortable means complacent. I see people younger than me moving ahead, and I'm standing still. If I'm not careful, McGee will be moving on and taking over his own team, and I'll still be sitting here, letting Gibbs slap me around and being a yes-man."

"Have you spoken with Director Vance about your career ambitions, Tony?"

He shook his head, no. It seemed the obvious thing to do, he had to admit, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't done it. Perhaps because his instincts still told him Vance didn't like him very much, and didn't have a whole lot of respect for his skill set. He wasn't a computer geek, like McGee. Vance liked that, being a bit of a computer whiz himself. What did Tony have to offer that Vance would appreciate? Not much. He had street smarts, good instincts. He was great under cover. In fact, he was a lot like Gibbs. Vance and Gibbs were like oil and water, so maybe it was no surprise that he felt the same way about Tony.

"I'm not sure that's going to help, Chaplain."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "Well, what does Agent Gibbs have to say about it? Would he put your name forward, if you asked him to?" Tony didn't really know how to answer this question.

"I honestly don't know. I guess I always assumed he'd push me out of the nest when he thought I was ready. But he already did that once, and then he came back and took it away from me." He clenched his jaw and stared up at the grate in the ceiling of the elevator.

"That's not quite true, though, is it, Tony?" she corrected him. He gave her a sideways glance, and his eyes widened. How much did Burke know about him? And how did she know it? Cranston was one thing - as an NCIS-appointed psychologist, she'd had access to his personnel file. But Burke? This was just a bit too freaky for him. She continued. "There was no reason for you to stay. But you did. And then when Agent Barrett showed up…"

Now it made sense. She'd deduced it all from their conversations about EJ. "Yeah. Can we leave EJ out of this, please?" He didn't want to go down that path. There were too many old wounds.

"I don't see how. EJ was the embodiment of what you could have been. Of what you WOULD have been, if you'd taken the Rota assignment. Watching her lead her team must have been incredibly hard for you." She paused, as if considering whether to say something. "Her Spanish wasn't very good." She stifled a giggle.

Tony didn't bother stifling his. He let out a loud guffaw, appreciating the gesture of lightening the mood. "Well, that's nepotism for you." He suddenly grew serious. "Maybe that's my problem - I don't have friends in high places."

"You might be surprised, Tony." He raised his eyebrows. "SecNav speaks very highly of you." His eyebrows went higher. "But let's not change the subject. Nice try, by the way. Why did you stay after Gibbs returned?"

"He wasn't himself. Someone had to look out for him. He was making mistakes, having memory lapses. He wasn't really ready to be back, but no-one had the heart to tell him that. I was protecting him."

Burke shook her head. "You didn't need to do that, Tony. And you know it. McGee and Ziva could have taken on that role, quite easily. There was something else going on there. Do you think it's possible you were a little afraid of succeeding? Cold feet, maybe? It's one thing to lead a team in comfortable, familiar surroundings, with friends and confidants close by to help you. It's quite another to step out of your comfort zone, into a new part of the world, in a foreign language, with a group of people you don't know at all, and no support system in place. What if you screwed up under those circumstances?"

Tony wasn't quite sure how to take those words. _Screwed up?_ What did she mean by that? Did she think it was likely that he would screw up in a new situation? But then, how the heck would she know? It wasn't as if she'd ever seen him actually at work. He leaned back against the back wall of the elevator and pondered her words. Could it be true? Was he afraid of failure? He'd always been supremely self-confident on the job. And he'd left the security of Baltimore to come to NCIS - a completely new and different type of law enforcement, nothing like anything he'd ever done before. There had been no guarantees that time, either.

Then again, he'd been quite a bit younger then. Maybe with age came caution. Or maybe… maybe it was that he'd never felt like part of a family until he arrived at NCIS.

"Not cold feet. Definitely not cold feet, Chaplain. I'm not afraid of adventure. I've made some big breaks in my life before, gone in new directions. But I've never landed anywhere that felt quite as much like… _home…_ as this does." He tapped the wall of the elevator, and brought one foot up.

"You're waiting for Gibbs to retire." She just lobbed that ball right onto the playing field, and waited to see whether Tony would catch it.

He swallowed hard. "Yeah. It's time. I want to stay here. But I don't want to stagnate." He pondered his next words very carefully. "I want that desk back."

"You think he's being selfish."

"Now, don't put words in my mouth. Uh…thoughts in my brain, I mean." She smiled.

"There's nothing wrong with having those feelings, Tony. In fact, I'd be worried about you if you didn't. You're human."

"He should've retired five years ago. There used to be a mandatory retirement age for field agents. He's way past it. But Vance doesn't seem ready or willing to give him the nudge. They can't promote him - he's already burned so many bridges, they'd never find a place to stick him where anyone would be willing to put up with him. So unless he leaves willingly…" He trailed off.

"So, you're stuck." Tony nodded forlornly. "Well, it would seem the only thing for you to do is have this conversation with Gibbs. Tell him how you feel. Tell him it's time for him to step aside."

Tony regarded her with alarm. "Yeah? Right. I can tell you how that conversation would go. One giant slap upside the head, and a 'get back to work, DiNozzo!'"

Burke leaned forward and flipped the power back on. As the elevator started descending once more, she sighed. "You asked for my advice, Tony. That's my advice. Nothing will change until you talk to Gibbs. If it doesn't change AFTER you've talked to him…well, then you'll have your answer. And then you can think about where to go from here."

Tony pondered this. It was simple advice, but it did kind of make sense. He grinned. "Ok, Chaplain. You're on. I just have one request."

"Name it," she offered.

"Pray for me."

* * *

Malcolm Jefferson had begun pacing the room a matter of minutes after Gibbs had stepped out of Interrogation. He was claustrophobic at the best of times, and knowing there was a camera trained on him, and quite probably a group of people watching from the other side of the one-way mirror, certainly didn't help. It was like being in a fish bowl, surrounded by cats peering in and licking their chops. He felt as though he was about to be their next meal.

Why had they suggested he might have killed his C.O.? Sure, there was no love lost between him and Hartmann, but he was a peace-loving man now, and had been for a number of years. Admittedly, it hadn't always been that way…

* * *

 _Hartmann always seemed to give Eagle the grunt jobs. He was charged this day with carrying his C.O.'s kit. Only commissioned officers had an official batman, but Hartmann didn't care. Niggers made good servants, and he needed to make sure this one stayed in his place. Having Eagle act as his 'dog-robber' helped to elevate his status, and kept the black man occupied and out of trouble. It also served to teach the other men in the unit who was boss._

 _The kit was heavy, and Malcolm, as the Scout Sniper for the unit, already had his own Gunslinger pack to deal with. They were traversing rough terrain this day, and he'd already stumbled a couple of times along the route. Climbing over a particularly rocky section, Jefferson tripped and landed face-first in the dirt. Hartmann's pack landed on top of him, while his own skidded off to the side._

 _Hartmann halted the unit, and barked at Jefferson. But it wasn't an order. It was an insult. "You goddam' piece of shit, why the hell don't you learn to pick up your feet? We got nine more miles to go before we set up camp. We gotta get there before night fall. This the way it's gonna be all the way there? Cos if it is, maybe I should just put you out of your misery right now? You're a goddamned liability, that's what you are. Don't know why we had to have a nigger in the unit, anyhow."_

 _Malcolm had had enough. He'd been taking this abuse for the past three months, and he could take it no longer. He rolled onto his side to relieve himself of his load, sliding his arms out from the shoulder straps. As he picked himself up, he grabbed two fistfuls of dust from the ground, and threw them directly into Hartmann's face, then charged the senior officer and knocked him to the ground. Grabbing his hair, he sucker-punched Hartmann in the jaw with a closed fist, then brought his two strong hands up to the CO's neck, and pressed hard on his adam's apple._

" _Eagle! Stand down, buddy!" Corporal Warner yelled. Warner and PFC Murphy struggled to pull him off Hartmann, before he did something he might regret for the rest of his life. Malcolm was an incredibly strong and muscular man, and had he himself not realized the stupidity of his knee-jerk reaction and willingly backed off, it was somewhat doubtful that their efforts would have succeeded in removing him._

 _He sat back on his rear end, panting heavily. Corporal Chu was restraining Hartmann, who was spitting both sand and curses out of his mouth in equal measure._

" _I'll have you up on charges, Jefferson!" yelled Hartmann, sniffing and wiping the blood from his nose._

" _Go ahead, Gunny!" taunted Malcolm. "And then when JAG questions me, I'll tell 'em all about how you treat me like your personal butler!"_

 _The gambit worked - Hartmann was smart enough to realize that he'd already garnered a reputation for his treatment of men of color, and when his word was put up against Jefferson's, he might be on thin ice. Not that Eagle wouldn't be charged with assault, but Hartmann himself might also receive a black mark on his own record. He was ambitious, and the last thing he wanted was to have anything down in writing that could hurt his chances of advancement after he got back state-side._

 _He scowled, stood, and picked up his pack from where Malcolm had dropped it. "Let's move," he barked. "We just lost a half hour." He strode ahead of the group, and they all gathered up their kits and followed._

 _After that day, the relationship between the two men was reduced to grunts and fiery stares. It was uncomfortable, to be sure. But a line had been drawn, and Hartmann had never crossed it again._

* * *

The door to Interrogation opened, and Gibbs stuck his head in. "You wanna come with me, Jefferson?"

Eagle practically loped to the door, then caught sight of another man standing to one side in the hallway. "Agent Dorneget's gonna take you to a safe house for a few days," Gibbs intoned.

Eagle shook his head vigorously. "Told you already, Agent Gibbs. Not interested. I don't need protection. I can look after myself." Dorneget looked rather sheepish, and it made Malcolm feel a bit awkward. "Not that I don't appreciate the concern," he added as an afterthought. Dorney shrugged.

"I can't force you to stay," Gibbs admitted, as they walked towards the bullpen. "But I want it on record that I'm telling you this is a bad idea."

Eagle grinned. "Understood, Sir." Their eyes met, and he saw a glimmer of understanding in Gibbs' face. Although they'd served in different wars, there was an unspoken kinship between the two men. Both Marine snipers. Both hardened veterans who'd seen more bloodshed and death than they cared to recall. Both lonely, and hardened by that loneliness. In a mere instant, all these things and more passed between them, without a single word needing to be spoken.

The elevator opened, and Malcolm stepped inside. "Semper Fi, Agent Gibbs." He saluted.

Gibbs responded in kind, as the door closed. "Semper Fi, Eagle."


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Boss, you want us to follow him?" Tony asked.

"Nope." Gibbs looked around for his glasses, donning them and reaching for a file folder on his desk. He rifled through the pages. "Head down to the Mission, and interview this Rev. Tarnower. Chaplain Burke wasn't at the Mission Wednesday night, so we need another witness to confirm Jefferson's whereabouts at the time of the murder. And find out if he still has his KA-BAR knife. Might get us grounds for a search warrant."

"On it, boss." Tim and Tony grabbed their backpacks and loped towards the elevator.

McGee looked at Tony sideways. "You do realize that we ARE following him?" Tony nodded.

As they drove to the Mission, Tim's curiosity got the better of him. He had to know what Tony had been talking to Palmer about. "What's up with Jimmy?" he asked.

Tony shook his head. "The usual. He's worried about upsetting Ducky, saying the wrong thing."

Tim laughed. "When's he going to realize he doesn't have to worry about all that?"

"I think he does realize it now. I think I finally got through to him…" He trailed off, and Tim realized there had been more to the conversation than Tony was letting on.

"…but…?" he prodded.

"Nothing." Tony shut down.

"Come on, Tony. I'm not stupid. I know you and Jimmy are friends, even if you never want to admit it. You call him 'Autopsy Gremlin' and you give him a really stupid wedding present as a decoy…" Tony looked at him furtively. "Yeah, that's right, DiNozzo, I know that wasn't the REAL wedding present. Very nice, by the way. I know you used to have little pow-wows down in the evidence garage while you were team leader. I know about your classic movie nights. I know everything."

Tony winced. "How…?"

"I'm a writer. I watch people. I notice things. I observe."

"Oh god. Please don't tell me you're working on the sequel…?" Tony begged.

Tim laughed. "No, don't worry. Deep Six has been deep-sixed." Tony let out a relieved breath. "But it's a writer's habit to observe."

"It's also a Gibbs habit," Tony interjected.

"Exactly."

They drove along in silence for some minutes, but Tim wasn't finished trying to prod the information out of his friend.

"So what's wrong with you, Tony?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you got Jimmy sorted out, but that wasn't the end of it, then the rest of it must have been about you, right?"

"It's always about me, Tim," Tony quipped.

Tim rolled his eyes. "Yes, all right, Tony. Come on. You haven't been yourself for ages. Not since Ziva left."

"This has nothing to do with Ziva," Tony quickly answered. "Nothing at all. It's not about women. It's about me, like I said."

Tim just let that statement hang in the air without responding. It had the desired response. Working on the theory that nature abhorred a vacuum, and Tony abhorred one even more than nature did, he glanced over at DiNozzo who was fidgeting in his seat. Eventually he couldn't stand it any longer, and decided to go ahead and spill his guts to McGee.

"You ever think about leading your own team, McGee?" he asked casually.

"Ah. Got it. Yeah. Sure, eventually… although, at the rate you're going, I might get there before you do."

Tony gave him a sidelong glance. "Jimmy should be in charge down in autopsy. It's time for Ducky to retire, so Palmer's not perennially in his shadow. That seems pretty obvious to me. So then I suddenly realized, exactly the same thing is true up in the bullpen. There's nowhere for me to go, Tim. You should be Senior Field Agent by now. You're three years older than I was when I got it. It's not fair to you. It's not fair to ME. Gibbs needs to retire."

Rant over. There. He felt better. Tim was in shock, though.

"You do realize, Tony, that there are other teams, in other places? You don't HAVE to lead THIS team."

"Yes, I do." He blurted. Wow. Where did that come from? He hadn't intended to say it out loud. He hadn't intended to say it at all. But now that he had, he realized that Chaplain Burke had been right - he would not entertain any other options. And THAT was the crux of the problem. He was self-limiting his options. He COULD have advanced, not just to Rota. There had been other opportunities he could have tried for, but he'd ignored them. There had even been one in the Washington field office - and hell, if he'd gone for that one, he'd still be in town, with his friends, seeing them on a regular basis. It would've been ALMOST like leading the MCRT. But he'd been too proud. He'd had Gibbs' job once, and dammit all, he wanted it again.

He didn't like what that said about him. The more he thought about it, the more awful it sounded. He wanted to push Gibbs out. But he couldn't. Or…could he?

Maybe he COULD have a word with Vance. Maybe…

"Tony?" Tim's voice brought him back to reality, and he realized they'd been sitting in the parking lot of the Mission for a couple of minutes, in total silence.

"Yeah. Sorry. Never mind. Forget I brought it up."

"You didn't. I did."

"Whatever. Let's do this." Tony stepped out of the car and watched as a man exited the side of the building with a bag of garbage and deposited it in the dumpster by the door.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked, a wide smile on his face. Like a shark, Tony thought ruefully.

They pulled out their badges and flashed them. "I'm Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, and this is my partner, Agent Timothy McGee. We're looking for Rev. Tarnower?"

"You got him." He threw the bag in the dumpster and turned to face them. "Is there a problem?"

"No problem," Tim replied. "We'd just like to ask you a few questions about a few of your… _patrons_." He wasn't quite sure what the correct word was, and suspected that wasn't quite right, but it sounded better than anything else he could come up with at the moment.

"Certainly. Come on inside." They followed him into the main hall, where various 'patrons' sat about at tables, some alone, others in groups. A boisterous game of Poker was in progress in one corner, with four players and three more onlookers. Looking around the hall, it seemed that most of the population here were street kids. There weren't too many elders like Eagle.

Tarnower appeared to be trying a bit too hard to assimilate with the youth. There was something about this guy that gave Tony the creeps.

Rev. James Tarnower was a slender and gangly man of about 35, who reminded Tony of a daddy-long-legs. Black hair (from a bottle, perhaps?), black polo shirt, black Guess jeans that fit a little too tightly. Several rather angry zits adorned his nose and cheeks. A less reverential reverend would be hard to find, Tony mused.

They sat down at the opposite end of the hall to where the card game was going on. Tarnower smiled at them. "Can I offer you some coffee?" he asked.

"No, that's fine. We just need to know a little bit about one of your 'patrons'. Chaplain Burke refers to him as 'Eagle'. His name is Malcolm Jefferson." Tim showed him a picture. Tarnower nodded.

"Yes. Eagle has been with us a long time. He's a rather quiet man, and very gentle, for the most part. He sets an excellent example for our youth." Tarnower waved his hand in the general direction of the room. "As you can tell, we have a lot of kids here. They've had hard lives up until now, and we try as best as we can to let them know that they are loved. It's a hard balance to strike - they also need boundaries, and discipline. We're not really equipped to handle that aspect, and we are not a counselling centre, so having people like Eagle around is really very helpful. The boys look up to him. He's a veteran, and anyone who's carried a gun legitimately is an icon around here." He lowered his voice. "Guns are not hard to come by on the streets of DC. I'm sure you're aware of that. It's so important for us to try our best to keep these young people from wanting to get their hands on those illegal weapons. There's no telling what sort of trouble they could get into.

"We have rules. There is a curfew. Everyone must be in the door and bunked down by 11 pm. No exceptions, or they sleep on the street that night. We've taken some criticism for that, but we have to consider the safety of our staff. We can't have people roaming the streets half the night, rounding people up. It's on them, whether they come in for the night or not. There are a few young people who are chronic offenders. Eagle tries his best with them, and I have to say, he's made some really good progress. Especially with Darius."

He pointed to the east corner of the room, where a black youth of about 16 sat playing with an iPhone.

"Where'd he get the phone, if he's homeless? Tony asked, suspiciously.

Tarnower shrugged. "I have no idea. If it were stolen, I'm sure Eagle would have confiscated it. He's as honest as the day is long. Eagle does odd jobs at a golf course. The owner throws a few bucks his way every now and again as a thank you. I can only surmise that he's been saving it up so he could buy the phone for Darius. It's probably not connected to a plan - just something he can play games on and such. These people don't have bank accounts, obviously."

"You mentioned the curfew. What time do you open your doors in the morning?" Tim asked.

"We serve a hot breakfast starting at 7 am, so the volunteers start arriving at 5:30 or so to prep. Is that significant?"

"It might be," McGee said casually, jotting the time down in his notes.

"Tell us more about Eagle, Reverend. He hang out with anyone in particular?" Tony asked.

Tarnower shook his head. "Eagle's a loner. He came to us initially about six years ago. He'd been living on the streets for a couple of years before that - ever since he got back from Kuwait. After his discharge, he had a hard time reintegrating into society. He'd be violent on occasion, got in trouble with the law a few times (just minor charges). Acquired a drinking problem. But then one of our outreach workers made contact with him, and brought him here. We have an AA program, and once he had a place to lay his head and felt some stability in his life, he started to turn himself around. Looking out for the young ones gave him something outside of himself to focus on, and today, he's a different man. It's been a wonderful transformation to behold," Tarnower enthused.

Tony didn't have an especially fond relationship with the church, although he thought Chaplain Burke was ok. Tarnower came across as a creepy version of Ducky - equally loquacious, but without any of the Scottish charm. It was important to make sure this conversation stayed on point.

"Got it. He's a good guy. Does he have any enemies that you know of?"

Tarnower turned pensive, then shook his head. "No, I can't think of any. He's generally well-liked by everyone here."

"Can you account for his movements between the hours of 19:00 on Wednesday and 08:00 on Thursday morning?" Tim asked.

"Well, let me think," Tarnower contemplated the question carefully. "He was with Darius most of that evening. They left for several hours, I'm not sure where they went. Sometimes they go to shoot pool at the local hall, if they have a bit of money. But I never worry about the young ones when they're with Eagle. He's very protective of them. Sometimes the younger boys get themselves into some pretty dangerous situations. They're prey for the pimps on the streets, you know, and some of them will do just about anything for a hit." He was about to launch into another epistle about the problems on the street, and Tony wanted to stay on-topic so he gently brought the conversation back.

"So did they make it back for the curfew?"

"As I recall, yes, they did."

"What about breakfast?" Tim asked.

Tarnower hesitated. "Eagle's never here at breakfast; he heads over to the golf course around 5 am or so. Most of the odd jobs he does have to be taken care of before the golfers arrive."

Tony raised an eyebrow at Tim. "Interesting. One last question, Reverend. Do you happen to know if Eagle owns a KA-BAR knife?"

Tarnower looked perplexed. He shook his head, no. "I'm not sure what that is, but as far as I know, he doesn't own any sort of knife. If he does, he stores it elsewhere. We don't allow weapons of any kind on our premises… for obvious reasons."

"You search the…'patrons'… when they come in each time?" Tim asked.

Tarnower grimaced. "Well…no. We don't exactly have the resources to go that far. But everyone here knows the rules. We keep the kitchen knives under lock & key, just to be safe, and we serve the meals with plastic utensils. Considering how careful he is to set a good example for the young ones, I highly doubt Eagle would keep it here if he owned one." Tony rolled his eyes at Tarnower's trusting attitude. It was unlikely they'd be able to get a warrant without something more to go on, given the way all the other evidence was pointing.

"We'll want to have a word with Darius."

"Of course," Tarnower nodded. He called to the young man, motioning him to come over. "Darius, these are NCIS Agents DiNozzo and McGee. They just have a few questions for you about Wednesday night."

Darius looked back and forth, from Tim to Tony and back again, anxiously. His white eyes were in stark contrast to the extreme darkness of his skin. He was roughly 16 years old, scrawny, about 5'7" and had scraggly dreadlocks to his shoulders. He wore a dark blue bomber jacket, covered in various stains. He reeked of cigarette smoke and another, not unfamiliar, rather sweet odour. His sneakers were covered in mud, and his jeans looked like they hadn't been washed in weeks.

"Have a seat, Darius." Tony took command of the conversation right away. He could sense extreme nervousness in this kid - he'd seen a lot of that when he worked the streets of Baltimore. Anyone with a badge was the enemy, unless you were seeking refuge from a rival gang. Darius did as he was told, and fingered the string of his yo-yo nervously.

"That's a nice one," Tony admired. "Mind if I have a look?" Darius shook his head, and handed it to Tony. Tim watched in fascination as Tony produced a couple of advanced tricks with the wooden toy, including 'walk the dog' and 'rock the cradle'. Darius smiled broadly. "Nice weighting," Tony said. Where'd you get it?"

"Eagle gave it to me," he said proudly. "It was his in the war - he got it over in Kuwait." Tim looked at Tony. Clearly there was a bond between Eagle and Darius. They might be able to get some good information from this kid.

"Ok, Darius, I need you to think back to Wednesday night. Do you remember leaving the Mission with Eagle that night?"

"Yessir," Darius acknowledged. Tim noticed that he'd begun to shake his leg beneath the table - a gesture of nervousness. "Went to the pool hall."

"Uh huh. And how long were you there?" Tony asked, leaning forward.

"Don't rightly remember, sir. We got home a bit late, barely made curfew." The kid was either telling the truth, or he was a damned good liar. Tony wasn't sure which.

"Can anyone vouch for you from the pool hall?" Tim asked.

"Maybe," Darius said dubiously. "We didn't talk to no-one, but Eagle had a beer, so the bartender would've seen him." He thought for a moment. "He ain't in trouble, is he?" he squeaked.

"Well, that depends. He ever talk to you about his time in the Gulf? Or about his C.O.?" Tony and Tim glanced at each other. Good cop, bad cop. The message travelled between them unspoken.

Darius lowered his voice. "I know Eagle didn't like the Gunny. Man had a hate-on for 'negroes', he gave Eagle a hard time the whole time they was over there." Tony was making notes, and Darius suddenly realized that what he was saying could be taken as incriminating. "Listen, man. I heard the guy bought it the other day. But ain't no way Eagle done it. Man wouldn't hurt a flea. He's a hero, no doubt about it. If it weren't for Eagle, I'd be out there on the street - prob'ly be dead by now, no word of a lie." Tony made more notes.

"You a crack-head, Darius?" Mild panic engulfed their subject's features.

"Now, Tony, go easy on the kid. He's already scared silly about his friend. No need to pile it on," Tim responded, playing the good cop. He leaned forward towards Darius. "My partner gets a little hot under the collar when he thinks he's not getting the whole story. But if you help us, I can make sure he won't pursue that line of questioning any further. You want to help us, don't you Darius?"

Darius nodded. "Yessir. I don't want no trouble, sir."

"Right. Ok, so how about telling us what you know."

"Already did, sir. Ain't nothin' more to tell."

"Come on now, Darius, Eagle must've said something more than that about Hartmann…" Tony prodded.

Darius thought for a moment. "No sir, that's all I can remember. Honest."

Tony scoffed, and stood. "Maybe we should just go through his bunk, and see what we find, huh, Tim?"

Sudden panic engulfed the young man. "No way, man! You ain't got a warrant. I know my rights! You can't just go through my stuff."

"He's right, Tony," Tim conceded. "But Darius, you know, Agent DiNozzo can easily GET a warrant. So maybe you should just cooperate." He pulled him aside. "Listen…if you'd rather just talk to _me_ , that's ok. We can take a walk, if you like…"

Darius nodded, but then looked back at Tony. "I don't trust him. He's gonna root through my stuff while my back's turned."

"Well, then, maybe we go down to the Navy Yard, and you can tell us everything down there," Tony interjected. Darius liked that option even less.

"Ok, ok. Only thing I know is, he said he took a swing at his CO one time, and then after that it wasn't so bad. Put him in his place, he did." Darius spat out his chewing gum into a used coffee cup that was sitting on the table. "Can I go now?" he asked, agitated.

"Yeah. Thanks Darius. See? That wasn't so bad, now, was it?" Tim soothed. The two agents glanced at each other and nodded. They had all the information they were going to get from this kid - he was clearly a bit stoned. And yet, he'd given them more than he realized; Tony slid the coffee cup into the pocket of his overcoat. As an afterthought, he called after the young man.

"Hey, Darius. One more question. What'd you have for breakfast yesterday morning?" Tim raised an impressed eyebrow at Tony.

"Fruit Loops!" Darius grinned.

They thanked Rev. Tarnower, and Tony asked him to call the Navy Yard when Eagle turned up. He'd been fairly certain the man was innocent, but after speaking with Darius, he no longer felt so certain.

They headed back to their car.

"What do you think Tim?" Tony asked. Over the years he'd learned to respect Tim's opinion, and was genuinely curious to see what the younger agent's take on things was.

"Well, that kid was fidgety, nervous. He could've been covering for Jefferson. I think we need to check out the pool hall, for sure. I doubt they'll be able to account for the entire time they were away from the Mission. That in itself is suspicious."

Tony shook his head. "Time of death was early Thursday morning, and Tarnower confirmed they were back at the Mission by curfew Wednesday night. We'll check out the pool hall, but I doubt it'll lead anywhere. I'm more interested in the fact that Jefferson was likely at the golf course at the time of the murder. Darius is a crack-head. The fidgeting, the nervousness…that's the drugs talking. He was terrified we were going to search his bunk. (I'm still thinking about it, by the way). I've seen more than my fair share of junkies when I was in Philly and Baltimore. Everything revolves around them keeping their stash secure and away from the prying eyes of the cops. He wasn't covering for Eagle. He was covering for Darius."

"Are you sure, Tony? Why was he so reluctant to tell us about that incident? I could see it if he hadn't had any additional information to give, but the fact he held out on that…he didn't want us to know that Jefferson had been violent in the past. That's a red flag, for sure."

"Agreed. Funny how Jefferson failed to mention that when Gibbs was questioning him. In fact, as I recall, he said he 'never laid a hand on him'."

Tony pulled out his phone and relayed the information to Gibbs. Eagle had not yet turned up at the Mission, and they had no idea of his whereabouts. But they were fairly certain he'd return that evening, as he had nowhere else to sleep. When Tarnower called, they'd send Dorney to bring him back in for further questioning.

Tony and Tim made their way to the pool hall next. They flashed Malcolm's picture around, and got a couple of positive i.d.'s, one from the bartender who'd served him his beer, and another from one of the waitresses. Both said Eagle and Darius had left the pool hall at about 10:30 pm. This was turning into a dead end. They canvassed the neighbourhood around the pool hall, but nobody had seen them leave.

Everyone they'd interviewed at the golf course had said the same thing – Eagle had not been seen since the altercation in the parking lot on Wednesday evening. And yet Tarnower said he'd left at 05:00 as usual to attend to his chores at the club.

It wasn't looking good for the unfortunate, displaced veteran.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

On their way back from the pool hall, Tim began contemplating Tony's aversion to religion, and wondered if there was something of a guilty conscience at play there. That didn't really make sense, though, because he obviously felt comfortable enough to confide in Chaplain Burke. So why the dichotomy?

"So, Tony. I saw the look on your face when we were interviewing Tarnower. What was it about him that bothered you so much? You have something you need to get off your chest?" he teased.

Tony fired him an icy stare. "No need to go down that road, McRighteous. He was creeping you out, too."

"True. But you've been in a weird mood lately, and I couldn't help noticing you walked Chaplain Burke out and the elevator was stuck for about 15 minutes there…"

Tony rolled his eyes. "We already talked about this."

"You mean to tell me you were talking about your career to a Chaplain? I don't buy it, Tony."

"Well, believe whatever you want. That's what it was about," Tony responded gruffly. There was a long silence. It was clear to Tony that Tim was never going to let this go. Sooner or later, he was going to have to tell him something. Whether it would be the truth or not, he hadn't decided. "Tim, I really don't want to talk about this right now, ok?"

Tim had expected some sort of a sarcastic comeback. Instead, he got serious Tony. And when serious Tony made an appearance, he knew enough to back off. Clearly his friend was hurting, and much as he might enjoy teasing him, he wasn't malicious. If he was honest, Tony had never pushed beyond that boundary, so there was no reason for Tim to do so either. It occurred to him that, a few months earlier, he might not have restrained himself so readily, having been egged on by Ziva, who had no boundaries. She'd brought out a side of Tim that he wasn't especially proud of, and he was secretly glad that the dynamic between him and Tony had changed since Ziva's departure; changed for the better.

"Ok, Tony. When you're ready to talk…I'm here to listen."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Father confessor, huh? I'm good, Tim. Honest."

McGee changed the subject. "So…you're thinking Jefferson is our murderer, aren't you? He certainly had opportunity, if he was at the golf course at 5 am."

"Hard to tell," Tony responded. "We definitely need to know what that 'incident' was all about. Gibbs seems convinced he's innocent, though."

"Yeah. That famous gut of his. What if we can't find him again?"

"Oh, he'll turn up. It would be interesting to see him and Darius together, check out the dynamic between those two."

Tony had encountered plenty of junkies in his time in Philly and Baltimore. Working the mean streets, he'd learned that there was a fine line between what was made up and what was hallucinated. That was the reason their testimony was so often unreliable. It depended on the drug, but by and large, a crack-head was one of the least reliable witnesses on the planet.

Tony had had a few snitches he contacted on a regular basis for information. He knew that whatever they told him was only hearsay, and would not be reliable enough to hold up in court. But it was good enough to point him in the direction of other leads, that might indeed prove to be useful. Whatever works, had been his motto.

Tim might very well have been right about Darius - and maybe they should go back and check his bunk for drugs. But the important thing right now to Tony was that the young man seemed very protective of Eagle. Both Burke and Rev. Tarnower had mentioned that the younger ones at the Mission looked up to Eagle, and that he tried to keep them on the straight and narrow. And that had to be a good thing.

The more he thought about this case, the more puzzled he became. He rolled it over in his mind. Three deaths within the space of a few months after their return from Kuwait. Why not four? If Eagle wasn't the murderer, how had he escaped? Was it because he'd gone 'off the grid' after being dumped by his fiancee? Was it because he was homeless, and the murderer couldn't track him down? That could very well be. But then, why not Hartmann? Why was he spared back then? If Tazeem was the killer, that didn't make sense. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered if there was yet another angle, something major that they had overlooked. Another possible suspect they hadn't thought of. Was it even possible that Hartmann himself was the cold case murderer? Perhaps Abby's tests on Hartmann's knife would provide the answers they were seeking. He resolved to go over the cold case notes again when he got back to the Navy Yard.

* * *

They pulled into the Yard, and Tim headed back up to the bullpen to check on Bishop's progress. Tony decided to make a stop in autopsy on his way. It was time to check in with the NCIS oracle - Dr. Donald Mallard.

"Anthony!" Ducky greeted Tony, as he closed the drawer on Col. Hartmann's body.

"Hey, Ducky. Anything new you can tell us about Hartmann?"

"Unfortunately, I believe the Colonel has told us all he is able." He raised his chin. "But that is not why you are here."

What was it about Ducky that enabled him to see right through him? It wasn't just the forensic psychology degree - he'd had this ability long before he'd ever acquired that extra education. Almost from the moment they'd met, Dr. Mallard had been able to read him like an open book. It had been rather comforting back then - whenever he'd had a problem with Gibbs, all he had to do was walk through Ducky's door, and the answers had been forthcoming. Ducky could always tell when he was upset, and always seemed to know just what to say to remedy the situation.

He wasn't sure that he'd get the answer he wanted this time, though. Tony knew in his heart what had to be done. He needed to talk with Vance. He needed to try to persuade him to turf Gibbs out. But the very thought made him feel guilty. And that was why he was here. Perhaps nobody knew Gibbs as well as Ducky did. If anyone could tell Tony how Gibbs might react to being pushed, it would be Ducky. Tony needed assurances that it would be ok, that Gibbs wouldn't hate him for the rest of his life, or worse, that Gibbs wouldn't languish at home and waste away with nothing to occupy his time. Mike Franks was gone - Fornell was still working, and probably would be for a number of years yet. Gibbs would end up at home in his basement, building more boats. What else did he have in life? WHO else did he have? Tony feared Gibbs would feel betrayed by his NCIS family, and that he would become embittered and lonely. That wasn't the legacy Tony wanted to leave him with.

"Would you like a cup of tea, Anthony?" Ducky drew him out of his reverie with the simple question. Ordinarily he would decline, but he suspected this conversation was going to take a while.

"Sure. Thanks, Ducky." He watched silently as the good doctor prepared the pot and steeped the tea, a very meticulous and precise process involving loose tea leaves, a properly boiled kettle and exactly 3 minutes of steeping before the strainer was fitted over the mouth of the pot. He poured two cups, and sat back to listen to Tony bare his soul.

He began, haltingly at first. "Ducky, has Gibbs ever talked to you about his plans?"

Ducky raised an eyebrow. "Plans?" He pondered the question, and then the penny dropped. "Ah. Plans. As in, after NCIS."

"Yes."

"I don't believe Jethro sees a future beyond NCIS," Ducky admitted. He regarded Tony carefully. "And that, dear boy, poses a particular difficulty for you." Good old Ducky. Once again he'd seen right to the heart of the matter.

"Yes, it does." Tony licked his lips. "There's gotta come a time when he's not allowed to work in the field anymore…right? I mean, doesn't NCIS have a maximum age of 55 for a field agent? He's way past that. Hell, I'm not that far away from that - less than 10 years, Ducky! I'm starting to understand how Prince Charles feels."

Ducky let out a hearty laugh. "A most apt analogy, Anthony. Indeed, you have been waiting in the wings for some considerable time."

"Except it's worse for me, because I had that job, and I had to give it up." There was a long pause. "I want it back, Ducky. I want Gibbs to retire. It's time. It's past time. And I know I need to talk to Director Vance about it. But…I don't want to force him out. I want him to go willingly. I want it to be his idea." He paused, and got a forlorn look on his face. "Help me, Ducky," he pleaded.

Ducky let out a long sigh. "Dear boy, this is not going to be easy, no matter how you look at it. Gibbs is a man with a singular purpose in life, as you know. NCIS was his salvation after Shannon and Kelly's deaths. His work is what keeps him focused, and enables him to make their deaths not be in vain. If he stops…WHEN he stops… he will be forced to deal with all of that."

"Didn't he deal with it seven years ago, Ducky, - last time he walked away?" Tony was confused by Ducky's response. No-one had even known about Shannon and Kelly until Gibbs' little hiatus. Tony was still angry about all of that. "You'll do", he'd said. As if he was settling for DiNozzo, not that DiNozzo was his first choice to lead the team. He wanted to earn it, not just have it handed over to him as a fall-back option.

"No, he did not," Ducky remarked assuredly. "But he should have. Our fearless leader has never received counselling of any sort for his troubles, and the pain of that incident is still buried deep within him. He will never walk away from this job willingly, because it means having to face that demon. It will have to come from without."

"Ok. So if Vance tells him he's being forced to retire… what then? Gibbs isn't stupid. He'll figure out the reason. He'll tie it back to me, and there'll be bad blood between us. I don't want that."

"Anthony… you need to convince Gibbs. It's no use telling Director Vance about it, as you say that can only lead to a rift that might be irreparable. My suggestion to you is that you have a heart to heart with Jethro some evening, when the two of you are not embroiled in the midst of a case. And you need to tell him how you felt the last time he left. The impact it left on you. The reasons you stayed when Director Shepard offered you the assignment in Rota. All of it. You need to come clean, Anthony."

Tony was in shock by Ducky's words. "Come clean, Ducky? Me? Why should I be the one who has to make the first move?"

"Because, quite simply, nothing will change unless and until you do."

"Can't you talk to him, Ducky? Isn't there a way you can put a bug in his ear that maybe, just maybe, it's time to make a graceful exit?"

Ducky chortled. "I am hardly the right one to be making such an assertion, dear boy. After all, I'm many years older than Gibbs, and I am still here." Tony looked at him pointedly.

"Yeah, I couldn't help noticing that, Ducky." He smiled softly, and Ducky realized he'd been had.

"Ah. Well played, Anthony. You believe it's time for me to step back and let Mr. Palmer take over here." He pondered the idea. "You are right. It is time. But I'm not convinced that Jimmy is ready. There is no doubt that he is ready from a technical standpoint. That is not the issue. But from a self-confidence and responsibility point of view…" he trailed off.

"Doctor Mallard…Jimmy was doing your job for a number of months while you were off after your heart attack. Then he stepped back when you returned. There's a parallel there, a rather striking one, you have to admit."

Ducky opened and closed his mouth. Touche. He hadn't seen it, but Tony had. There WAS indeed a parallel, and he was now forced to apply his words to DiNozzo on himself. How hypocritical it would be to agree that Gibbs should step down but not he himself. How difficult to acknowledge that Jimmy had been pushed back out when he'd returned. How embarrassing to realize that he was in the way.

Tony hadn't meant to drop that particular bomb on his friend. "Sorry Ducky. But really, if Jimmy were to do what you're advising me to do… how would you react? Be honest, now."

"Indeed." Ducky pursed his lips. "I would not take it especially well. But you are right - who am I to stand in his way? I know Jimmy only too well. He will never begin that conversation with me. But we must have it. And so it shall be me that brings it to the fore. Thank you Anthony." He stood, as a signal that it was time for Tony to leave. But Tony still didn't have the answer he'd come for.

"Ducky, that doesn't help me. What do I do about Gibbs?"

"Ah. Well… let me ponder that, dear boy, and I'll get back to you. Perhaps after I've had the conversation myself with Mr. Palmer?"

Tony sighed. A day or so ago, he hadn't even realized this was a problem. Now it was consuming his every waking moment. If Ducky couldn't, or wouldn't, help Tony to get the message across to Gibbs, he figured it was pretty much a lost cause. Gibbs was like a steam roller - no way would he be able to get him to agree voluntarily to retire. That seemed to be the one thing they all agreed on. But it didn't help the issue. Tony made for the door, then turned back.

"Ok. Good luck with that, Ducky. Don't tell Jimmy I talked to you about it, will you? He'd be mortified if he knew I'd been influencing you."

"My lips are sealed," Ducky intoned, drawing thumb and forefinger across his mouth.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Ellie Bishop had been tracking the movements of Tazeem Hamdani ever since they'd made the connection between him and the murders. He'd been in the country when all three of the initial murders had taken place. Then, shortly after the third marine was killed, he'd moved to Canada, where he'd resided ever since. Now, he'd come back to the US three weeks ago, purportedly in Norfolk, and while he was there, another murder, with the exact same M.O., had materialized. It was a very striking coincidence. Too striking to be coincidence, perhaps.

Gibbs didn't believe in coincidences, a fact Ellie Bishop had learned very early on. Everything was connected, everything had a reason for being. Tazeem had motive. He'd had opportunity, in all four murders. All they needed was a murder weapon, or a confession, or preferably both. They needed to bring Tazeem in for questioning. They needed to grill him, they needed to get a confession out of him, and they needed to nail him to the wall.

That was the thought process on Bishop's mind when Gibbs returned to the bullpen and yelled "Grab your gear, Bishop, we're goin' to Norfolk."

Tazeem was supposedly staying with friends for a few days, so the customs official had noted. The bolo had come up empty, but inquiries and monitoring cell phone calls had led them to an upscale home in the Highland Park area. As they pulled into the driveway, they saw a face in the window, drawing the curtain aside. There was conversation with someone else in the room, then the face disappeared.

Gibbs and Bishop approached the front door and knocked. A middle-aged woman opened to them. They flashed their badges and introduced themselves. Almost immediately, they heard a door slam.

They bolted around to the back of the house, and caught a faint glimpse of a red bomber jacket flying over a neighbour's fence. Bishop continued the pursuit on foot, while Gibbs ran back to the car and rushed around the corner, cutting off Tazeem as he tried to scamper down the back alley one street over. He turned around to flee in the opposite direction, coming face to face with the barrel of Ellie's gun. He stopped dead in his tracks, and Bishop yelled, "Federal Agents! Tazeem Hamdani, on the ground, now!" He dropped to his knees, and she quickly jumped behind him and slapped on the handcuffs. Gibbs looked on proudly.

"Good work, Bishop!" he praised.

"I've done nothing wrong!" Tazeem protested.

"Then why'd you run?" Gibbs asked.

"Because of what your government did to Maher Arar. I'm a Canadian Citizen. I have rights!" he screamed.

Gibbs looked bemused. "We just wanna talk to ya, Ta-zeem" he drawled coolly.

"Then why am I in handcuffs?" Tazeem protested.

"Well, that'd be the running away part," Gibbs was enjoying this immensely. It never ceased to amaze him when suspects fled and then expressed genuine surprise at being taken into custody. "When ya run, it naturally tells us you're guilty of something. If ya weren't, ya wouldn't need to run, would ya?"

Tazeem's face was wild with fury. But Gibbs also detected genuine fear there. "You zero in on people with coloured skin. You do not accord basic human rights to anyone who was not born in your country. I want to speak to someone from my embassy. Tell my friends where you are taking me," he insisted.

"We just wanna talk to ya," Gibbs repeated. "We coulda had a conversation in your friends' living room, but now it's gonna have to be down at the Navy Yard." They led him back to the vehicle and pushed him into the back seat, leaving the handcuffs in place. His three friends stood on the front lawn watching as they drove away, mouths agape.

Tazeem protested his innocence of any wrong-doing all the way back to NCIS Headquarters.

"I would've believed you, if you hadn't taken off the moment we arrived at the door. You answer all our questions, and we might consider not laying charges."

Bishop led him to Interrogation, and Gibbs decided to let him sit and stew for a good long while. He headed out for coffee, then decided it was about time he checked in with Abby once again.

* * *

Abby was pleased to see Gibbs. "Science conquers all, Gibbs," she asserted proudly.

"Got something for me, Abs?" Gibbs asked, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen. She had brought up an image of the knife Tim and Ellie had brought back from the Hartmann residence.

"There were several different blood stains on Lt. Colonel Hartmann's knife… BUT, I didn't find any traces of HIS blood on it. And I've ruled it out in the other three murders too."

"How?" Gibbs asked. "I thought you couldn't get any DNA off that old evidence?"

"Correct, El Jeffe. But the one thing we do know is that our victims were human." She hit a key on her keyboard, and the image of a deer filled the screen. "This is Hartmann's victim." She scowled. "A poor little innocent deer. How can anybody kill such a beautiful creature, for sport? It's inhumane!"

Gibbs chuckled.

"It's not funny, Gibbs!"

"All right, Abs. Thank you." He kissed her cheek, and turned back towards the elevator.

"Did I say you could leave, Gibbs?" she asked petulantly. One corner of his mouth turned up in mild amusement. Only Abby could get away with speaking to him in this way, but he found it rather adorable. He returned to her side, and with a few strokes of her keyboard, the large plasma screen behind the computer filled with images of the four bodies, revealing the Chi-Rho symbols in each case. They moved in front of it.

"You see these symbols that were carved into the bodies?" she pointed at the photos. Gibbs nodded. "Well, I was able to generate a 3D image of the wounds in the cold case by analyzing the old autopsy photos. They all have a distinct pattern and depth to them. The P symbol was made first, then the X was superimposed afterwards - the wound is less deep in the X than the P. But the last one…" she blew up the photo of Hartmann's body, "… was made differently. The X in this case was drawn first, followed by the P. And look - the loop of the P in the first three was made as a triangle, where the last one is more rounded." Gibbs peered at the four photos, and saw what Abby was getting at.

"Gibbs, I'd bet money that whoever killed those first three men, isn't the same person that killed Hartmann. You've got a copycat on your hands."

"Thanks Abs!" Gibbs kissed her cheek. She smiled sweetly.

As he left her lab, Abby struck a fist up in the air triumphantly. "YES! You can't defeat me, cold case. I will solve this mystery. SCIENCE will solve this mystery!"

Gibbs, on the other hand, was not as happy to receive this new information. If Tazeem could not be tied to all four murders, they wouldn't be able to wrap this case up just yet. And they were running out of leads. On his way up to Interrogation, he decided to keep the copycat theory under wraps. If Tazeem was their cold case killer, he might trip himself up and admit that, in the process of denying killing Hartmann, or vice versa.

* * *

Tazeem Hamdani sat still as a stone in his chair in Interrogation. His hands were folded in front of him; his eyes closed, as if in prayer. Not a muscle twitched. Tony stood on the other side of the glass with Bishop, trying to get a read on the guy. Usually his instincts were almost as good as Gibbs', but he wasn't getting anything from this one. And that bothered him. All the evidence pointed to Tazeem as the killer. But it was all circumstantial. Without a confession, or some new piece of information they could extract from him that might lead to more concrete evidence in the case, he wasn't sure they'd be able to make anything stick to this guy. If he got back across the border into Canada, it would be extremely difficult to get him back. The Canadians didn't like extraditing people, especially if they were up on murder charges. They didn't like the way the Americans handled these cases.

Why had the guy bolted as soon as Gibbs and Bishop had introduced themselves? Why was he comparing himself with Maher Arar? Was he involved in terrorist activities they knew nothing about? Or was he just unnecessarily afraid of any law enforcement officials? They would have to be careful with this guy, Tony realized - he was obviously the type who might try to create an international incident, merely by the fact of having been handcuffed. It stood to reason that if he hadn't run, they could have had a perfectly normal conversation, in his friends' living room, instead of sitting at a table in a 10 x 15 room with a camera trained on him. Some people just didn't think logically.

The door opened, and Gibbs stepped into the room, shutting it quietly behind him. He put a bottle of water in front of Tazeem, then took off his jacket, carefully hanging it on the back of the chair. He placed a file on the table and sat down across from him. He opened the file and began to read silently. Tony smiled, recognizing the approach. Gibbs was a master; not that DiNozzo himself didn't have a few tricks up his sleeve, but he'd seen Gibbs reduce a suspect to a puddle of piss using this very technique. Tazeem blinked. Gibbs kept his head down, slowly lifting each page of the file and turning it over as he read. Tazeem was straining to see what was on the pages, but couldn't quite make them out, Tony realized.

It was psychological warfare at its finest. "Watch and learn, Bishop," he said.

Tazeem cleared his throat. Still Gibbs did not look up. Seconds turned to minutes. Tazeem's upper lip began to quiver; Tony couldn't tell whether it was out of fear, or fury. He cleared his throat again.

Gibbs looked up and nodded towards the unopened bottle of water. "Take a drink." Tazeem did so.

The suspect looked confused. "Why am I here, Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs cocked his head. "I think I already explained that one to you, Ta-zeem. You got a short attention span or something?"

"I know my rights. I want legal representation."

Gibbs tossed his head back and smiled. "Never said you were under arrest. Whaddya need a lawyer for?" He went back to his papers.

There was another long silence. Then…

"If you are not going to ask me any questions, then I say again… why am I here?"

"Oh, I've got plenty of questions, Ta-zeem." Gibbs slowly and carefully placed three photos down in front of him - the bodies of the three marines from the cold case. "Any of these look familiar?"

Tazeem glanced at the photos, and recoiled in horror, pushing them away from him. "No! What is this?"

Gibbs leaned forward and spoke softly but deliberately. "These are the men who killed your parents. And your little sister. That help refresh your memory? Don't tell me you didn't want revenge after that?"

* * *

Just then, Leon Vance stepped into Observation and positioned himself between Ellie and Tony, watching the proceedings. His face was full of concern, and he was chewing a toothpick - a habit he'd gotten away from over the last few years. Tony gave him a sidelong glance. "Not sure how to read this guy, Director."

"We need to tread carefully here, Agent DiNozzo. I've already had a call from the Canadian Ambassador. It seems Mr. Hamdani has friends in high places. He's a public servant with the Canadian Federal Government. Gibbs had better have concrete evidence of his involvement in this case, otherwise we're going to have to let him go."

"He took off as soon as he saw our badges, Director. He must be hiding _something_ ," Ellie reasoned.

Vance didn't respond. He pulled out his toothpick and tossed it in the trash can in the corner.

* * *

"You play golf, Ta-zeem?" Gibbs leaned back in his chair, and flipped through the file to retrieve the most recent crime scene photo.

"Yes. What does that have to do with anything?" Tazeem responded defensively.

"In fact, you played Cypress Point just the other day, didn't ya?" Gibbs asked. He placed the photo of Hartmann's body in front of Tazeem, next to the other three. "How'd you get in? One of your buddies invite ya? Nice secluded spot to hide a body. That 14th hole's a killer." He looked up at Tazeem and smiled. "Four down, one to go, right?"

Tazeem sucked in air. "I'm not saying another word. I know nothing about any of this. I want a lawyer. NOW. I know how this works. You have no idea what happened, so you automatically play the 'racially motivated crime' game. Blame the Iraqi, a jury will buy that." He licked his lips and folded his arms across his chest. "I should have known better than to come back here."

"All right, let's take a different approach. Where were you between 19:00 Wednesday evening and 08:00 Thursday morning?"

Tazeem raised his chin defiantly. "I told you. No more questions until I have a lawyer present."

Gibbs gathered up the photos and closed up the file. He stood, grabbing the bottle of water from in front of Tazeem. "Have it your way. You wanna spend the night in a cell, that's up to you."

Vance banged on the glass. Gibbs glanced in that direction and scowled. He pulled out his cell phone and tossed it at Tazeem. "Call your lawyer," he huffed. Vance noticed him heading for the door, and headed out to meet him in the hallway, followed by Tony and Bishop.

"Gibbs! A word." Vance knew Gibbs wasn't going to like what he had to say. He didn't like it much himself; but protocol had to be followed when international relations were at stake. "I don't want to be getting an angry phone call from the Canadian Minister of Justice, Gibbs. If you've got something on this guy, you'd better produce it, pronto. I'm being pressured to let him go."

"Leon, this guy should've been a prime suspect in the original murder investigation. The murders stopped when he left the country. He comes back… we get another body. That's one hell of a coincidence, and I don't believe in them, as you know. I got a fresh DNA sample." He held up the water bottle, a cheeky grin on his face. "Now we've got something for Abby to test against."

Vance chuckled and nodded approvingly. "You've got twelve hours. I can't hold off the dogs any longer than that."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Malcolm arrived back at the Mission at around 19:00 that night. He didn't say where he'd been. He searched the common room and the dorm for Darius. The young man was nowhere to be found.

Eagle was terribly concerned about the lad. He'd discovered some months earlier that Darius had graduated from simple weed and was getting into some of the harder drugs. He wasn't sure how he could help him, never having been a parent (and never having used drugs, either, for that matter). Then again, maybe being a parent wouldn't help either. These days it seemed so hard to keep young people on the straight and narrow.

Malcolm thought back to the days when he was that age. He'd given his parents a real run for their money. In fact, that was how he'd come to be a Marine… fed up with Mom and Dad getting on his case and telling him he'd never amount to anything if he remained on the path he'd chosen, one day at lunch he'd skipped out of school and wandered downtown. A US Marine recruiter happened to be set up in the shopping mall. The idea of wearing a uniform appealed to Malcolm - it would certainly attract the girls! - so he'd wandered over and engaged the Marine in conversation. Twenty minutes later, he was loaded up on propaganda and dreaming of a career in the Corps. It seemed it would be a great way to satisfy his parents' desire for him to 'make something' of himself. It hadn't had quite the reaction he'd anticipated, however. His mother was absolutely dismayed, and forbade him to even consider it. All of a sudden, they were concerned for his safety, and worrying that he'd actually be foolish enough to enlist. Just to spite them, he'd gone back the next day and signed the paperwork.

He could still hear his mother's sobs every time he thought about it. It was one of his greatest regrets. On his first tour of duty to the Gulf, he'd received word that his mother had died of an aneurism. His father only lasted a few weeks after that, dropping dead of a heart attack. They'd never reconciled, and his heart was heavy every time he thought about it. Darius had no family that Malcolm knew of; he didn't even know who his father was, and his mother was a drug-addicted call girl who'd been murdered by her pimp when she'd tried to get out of the business of turning tricks in order to raise her son. He'd been bounced from one foster family to another, one group home to another, and finally had fled, preferring the ironic, unpleasant certainty afforded by life on the streets to the chaos of never knowing whether 'home' was going to be the same place today as yesterday.

Chaplain Burke had returned to the Mission a few hours earlier, and she noticed Eagle's arrival. She came over to sit beside him on his bunk as he stared dejectedly across at Darius' unmade bed.

"How do I help him, Chaplain?" It was a rhetorical question - he knew she had no answer for him.

She patted his knee. "You've already done everything you could, Eagle. You've helped him more than you know. But now it's his turn. He has to help himself. Sometimes we need to let people fall so they realize they need help to get back up again. When Darius is ready, he'll reach out to YOU. He knows you'll be there for him when that time comes. And that's the best thing you could possibly do for him."

Eagle shook his head. "The way he's goin', he'll end up dead before he gets the chance to reach out to me. It's gettin' so hard to get through to him. You know, I sometimes get the feeling he looks up to me and thinks I'm the best thing that's ever happened in his life; but then he goes and does something real stupid like buying drugs. It's so hypocritical. And he's trying to quit smoking, for pete's sake! How do you reconcile that, Chaplain? He's worried about gettin' lung cancer from cigarettes, but he'll smoke a rock of crack without even thinking."

Burke sighed. "I know, Eagle, I know. I wish there was something more I could say that would bring you some comfort. But…you've been there yourself, haven't you?" She looked at him pointedly.

"What do you mean, Chapl'n? I ain't never done no drugs!" Malcolm gave her a look of mild alarm.

"Oh, Eagle, I know that. You've struggled with addiction in the past – that's all I meant. And that's why it's so hard for you to watch Darius doing this to himself." She squeezed his hand, and a tear fell gently from his eye.

"Yeah. I got home from the Gulf, and my girl was gone. My LIFE was gone. I didn't fit in anywhere anymore. I guess the Corps tried to help me, but I was so angry I didn't want nothin' to do with any of it. I felt like it was the Corps that ruined my life, last thing I wanted was to take help from THEM. So I just took off, and lost myself in a bottle. It was the only way to make the pain feel a little less. Then I'd start to sober up, and the pain was still there, so I needed to stay drunk all the time just to function. It ain't hard to get the booze when you live on the street. Plenty of folks will give you a buck when you look helpless enough, and you learn the tricks."

It was Burke's turn to shed a tear. She'd spent many hours talking with Eagle, but he'd never opened up to her before about his drinking problem. He'd been too ashamed, and had wanted to hide it from her, wanting her to see only the best part of him. She smiled at him warmly, and he grinned back at her. He trusted her - she was one of the few people he felt he COULD trust.

"Eagle…have you ever told Darius any of this?" she asked. The question took him by surprise.

"No Ma'am. Why would I do that?" The last thing Darius needed, in his estimation, was to see his hero as weak. But that was exactly where Chaplain Burke was headed with this conversation.

"Did it ever occur to you that if he heard your story, it might help him see that he's going down a dark path? He practically worships the ground you walk on, Eagle. He respects everything you say. If you tell him how you struggled, how much better your life is without the alcohol, and how difficult it was when you were addicted, just maybe he'd take heed and reach out for help. Just maybe he'd realize that you're not just nagging him, that you are speaking from the voice of experience and that you genuinely care about his wellbeing."

Eagle shook his head. "I'm not so sure about that, Chapl'n. He ain't thinkin' clearly. I remember when I was like that - nothin' nobody said to me would help."

"Well, something obviously did. Or you wouldn't have stopped."

"Yes'm, but that was divine intervention got me to stop."

"Ok, so if you know that, why not use it?" Eagle looked at her, mystified. She continued. "Just because you're not wearing a collar doesn't mean you can't share that with him."

He pondered these words. "How do I do that without pushing him away, though? What if he don't want to hear it? If he ain't READY to hear it? It only worked 'cos I was in the right place at the right time. If the Rev had talked to me any other day, I probably would've just pushed him away and kept on walking."

"Eagle…you believe in the power of prayer, don't you?" He nodded. "So, pray about it. Pray for the right moment. Pray for Darius to hear you, to listen. Pray for the RIGHT words to say, the words that Darius will be willing to listen to."

He grinned. "You a smart lady, Chapl'n. I think I'll do that." She hugged him. "Thank you, ma'am. I sure 'preciate you bein' in my life. You a gift to me, you know?"

"Oh, Eagle, that works both ways," she smiled. She rose to her feet and glanced around the room. Most of the usual suspects had returned to the Mission by now and were getting ready to bed down for the night. A warm breeze was blowing through the screened windows, and the sky was clear. A sliver of moonlight shone across the floor, glinting against the nails in the floorboards. The sound of police and ambulance sirens could be heard in the distance, intermingled with laughter from outside the bar across the street and a car door slamming. "I sure hope it quiets down soon," she murmured, checking her watch. "You need some rest - it's been a rough day for you. I'll be keeping an eye on you, you know - I'm still worried that whoever killed Lt. Col. Hartmann might come after you. You are the last one, after all."

Eagle scoffed. "I'm perfectly safe, Chapl'n. But thanks for the concern!"

He watched her as she approached the door. She was a slender woman, very attractive…the sort he would have been highly attracted to as a younger man. He realized that his thoughts were not completely chaste, and suddenly felt flushed. Kicking his shoes off, he rolled himself onto his bunk, and stared at the ceiling. Flies were buzzing up above, attracted to the pale glint of the fluorescent lights that were dimly illuminating the room. There was a soft murmur of voices coming from the kitchen next door, as the volunteers prepared things for the next morning's breakfast while trying not to bash around the pots and pans. He felt a fly land on his nose, and flicked it away. He turned over Chaplain Burke's words in his mind, over and over. Prayer. That was the answer.

He slipped off his bunk, and, with great difficulty, knelt down beside it, folding his hands. He could hear a couple of the younger men chuckling as they watched him, but he didn't care. He knew full well he could just as easily pray while lying on his back, but getting into this position helped him to focus, to concentrate, and it also kept him humble. He needed to be in the right frame of mind here. He closed his eyes, and began. He asked for guidance. He asked for the right words. He asked for Darius to come back, not to miss the curfew. His thoughts were all a jumble, but he just let them tumble from his brain, secure in the knowledge that God knew what he was really asking for, and it didn't matter if it didn't make any sense to him, God could figure it all out. When he'd finished, he glanced across once more at Darius' empty bunk, and from somewhere inside him, he felt an urge to check it out. What if Darius was hiding drugs in his bunk?

Eagle leaned over and lifted the blanket. Nothing there. Nothing under the pillow, either. Then he pulled against the mattress and heard something - a scraping noise against the coils. He lifted the mattress up, and saw something glinting in the moonlight. With a sharp intake of breath, he suddenly realized what it was. A knife. He knew enough not to touch it - he could tell it had blood on it, and immediately the pieces fell into place. With horror, he realized that Darius was in far deeper trouble that he ever could possibly have imagined.

His heart in his throat, Malcolm suddenly remembered one crucial detail - the sound of scraping as Darius rolled over in his sleep last night. He now realized what it must have been - Darius had pulled up the edge of the mattress and slid the knife underneath it to conceal it. He must have intended to dispose of it later. It didn't really make sense. Why would he keep the murder weapon? Unless…

He scrambled to open his knap sack in which all his (few) worldly belongings were kept. Rifling though the bag, he hunted for his Marine Corps knife. His suspicions were confirmed - the sheath was empty. Darius had taken Eagle's own knife to execute the final justice against the man who had tormented him during the Gulf War. With despair, he remembered that he'd poured out his soul to the young man Wednesday evening at the pool hall, fired up after his altercation with his former C.O. in the golf course parking lot. He'd told him everything - all about Hartmann's neo-Nazi tendencies, the way he'd singled out Malcolm for extra duty, made him carry his kit, hurled racial slurs at him, and even tried to set him up as the fall guy for the attack on the Hamdani family home. Hartmann had made it look and sound as though Malcolm had gone rogue all on his own, and as if he had tried to rein him in, to no avail. It was all a lie, of course, and Malcolm was bitter. He'd spat out all that bitterness to Darius, hoping that it would help him to connect with the young man, but it had backfired horribly, he now realized. Darius had taken matters into his own hands, and now he had blood on those hands. What to do?

He knew that weapons of any sort were not permitted at the Mission, but that policy had been implemented after he'd already become a fixture there. By that time, he'd become known as such a gentle soul, that no-one had seen the need to search his belongings. No-one, it seemed, but Darius.

Malcolm was incredibly conflicted. He could hide the truth - get rid of the knife, and no-one would be the wiser. Or, he could take the blame himself. But would that help Darius? Chaplain Burke's words rang in his ears… _sometimes we need to let people fall so they realize they need help to get back up again._ It would be a very hard lesson for the boy, but he was still a juvenile, so perhaps there was hope that he'd get the help he needed once he was 'in the system', before he became an adult and ended up with a permanent record? His mind was made up - he needed to tell the truth. He needed to let Chaplain Burke know what he'd found.

He stood - with difficulty - and made his way to the kitchen, where Burke was helping the other volunteers to mix pancake batter. "Chapl'n. Need to speak with you. It's important."

She nodded, and handed the wooden spoon to a young man in a well-worn AC/DC t-shirt. "Here, Trevor. Take over for me for a minute, would you?" Trevor nodded and smiled at Malcolm.

Burke followed him back to his bunk, and sat down beside him. "What's up, Eagle?" she asked. He looked ashen, and she leaned over and touched his knee, full of concern. "What is it? Did you have a bad dream?"

"No Ma'am. I just realized Darius is in much more trouble than I thought." He lifted Darius' mattress, revealing the knife. She gasped. "I wasn't sure what would be the right thing to do, so I figured I'd tell you, and you'd know."

She bit her lip, and took several deep breaths. "Oh, Eagle," she murmured. "This is BAD." She shook her head. "That's YOUR knife, isn't it?" she inquired, already knowing the answer.

"Yes Ma'am. He must've gone through my sack one night while I was asleep. I kept it at the very bottom, underneath all my other things. Don't have much occasion to use a knife these days, on account of trying to live a peaceable life, and all." He stared at her with trepidation. "You think this is my fault, Chapl'n? Cos I'm afraid it might be. I know we not supposed to have knives in here. I told Darius more than I should have about those days in the Gulf. He must've wanted to get revenge on my account."

"It would have been best to let the Rev keep your knife in a lockbox, Eagle, that's true, but this is all on Darius. He wants very much to be treated like an adult. So now he's going to have to live with that. We need to call Agent Gibbs." Malcolm nodded dejectedly.

Burke pulled out her cell phone and called Gibbs' number - which she'd had on speed dial ever since they'd worked on the case of the missing Marine together. It rang six times before he finally picked up - she guessed he must be in his basement, working away on some piece of woodwork or other. She waited patiently, and eventually he came on the line.

"Yeah, it's Gibbs."

"Agent Gibbs. This is Chaplain Burke. I believe we know who your killer is." She heard a clinking sound, as if he was putting down some piece of wood working equipment or other.

"Talk to me."

"We - I mean, Eagle - found a knife under someone's bunk."

"Hope you didn't touch it. This someone have a name?"

"Darius Lane. He's just a boy, Gibbs - 16 years old. And no, we didn't touch it. I'm sure he doesn't realize how much trouble he's in. Or maybe he does, and he's scared. I don't know if he'll come back here or not, but there's a good chance he will." She hesitated. "It's Eagle's Marine Corps issue knife, Gibbs. He didn't realize it was missing until this evening. He thinks Darius was planning on cleaning it and putting it back where he found it, in Eagle's kit."

"How do you know it wasn't Eagle that put it under Darius' bunk?" Gibbs reasoned.

"Really, Agent Gibbs? You're asking me that?"

"Yeah. I'm asking. What kind of motive does a 16-year old kid have to kill a Marine Corps Colonel?"

It was a fair question. "Darius idolizes Eagle, Agent Gibbs. I'm guessing he thought Hartmann deserved to die for the way he treated Eagle during the Gulf War. But you'd have to ask him that question."

"All right. Get everyone out of the dorm. We're on our way. You got a picture you can send me?"

"Yes, I'll text it to you momentarily." She hung up the phone, and rifled through her photos until she found a recent one of Darius. She sent it to Gibbs, then sighed resignedly.

"Oh, Eagle. What a sad day. But maybe this is what Darius needs in order to get some help?"

"I was thinking that too, Chapl'n. God sure has a funny way of answerin' prayer, though, don't He?" He shook his head.

"We have to wake the others and empty this room out. I'll alert the staff and volunteers about what's happening, too. They're going to be more than a little alarmed when they see NCIS personnel in here."

Burke headed back towards the kitchen, and Eagle sat dejectedly on his bunk, waiting for the inevitable to happen. He felt like walls were closing in on him. He'd failed. Darius had been his pet project, the kid he thought he could save, the kid who reminded him so much of himself, and he'd failed to help him. In fact, he'd actually made things WORSE. If he hadn't opened his big fat mouth, Darius would never have engaged in vigilante justice. What was he going to do now?


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Twenty minutes later, Tony and Ellie arrived at St. Christopher, with gloves, a luminol kit and baggies. They collected the knife, as well as a section of the under-side of the mattress that had come into contact with it, Tony snapping pictures while Ellie collected the evidence. Tony sat with Malcolm and had him repeat his tale.

Abby hadn't yet got the DNA results on the gum from the coffee cup that Tony had snagged when they'd been here earlier today, but she'd confirmed that it was Nicorette – the same brand found on the tree at the crime scene.

A year or so earlier, Tony would have been worried about Ned, posted in his car just down the street awaiting Darius' return. But Ned Dorneget was turning into a fine young agent, much to Tony's surprise. He was eager and hard-working, and impressed Tony with how quickly he picked up on little tricks and nuances of NCIS field work. It wouldn't be long before he was assigned to a dedicated team, and was no longer floating around the Yard. If Gibbs would only step aside, so Tony could take over the lead, he might well consider Ned for the role of his new junior agent.

They had kept their vehicles out of sight. Ned had instructions to call Tony on his cell the moment Darius made an appearance. They had no guarantee that he would show up, though. The moment Chaplain Burke had called Gibbs, Tim had put out a BOLO. The ideal would be if Darius chose to return in order to dispose of the knife, but they couldn't assume that would be his course of action. There was so much they didn't know about this kid - and Malcolm wasn't proving to be of much help. He was so distraught about the whole situation, that he was barely coherent.

They had been on the scene for about 20 minutes, when they got a call from Ned.

"Tony. Positive ID on Darius Lane. He's heading for the west entrance. Do you want me to intercept?"

"That's a negative, Ned. We'll get out of sight and see what he does when he comes in. Stand by." Tony motioned to Bishop, and she nodded her understanding. She drew her weapon and slipped into the kitchen, her back against an industrial-sized refrigerator. Tony sequestered himself behind a door, just off from the dorm room. From where he stood, he had a clear view of Darius and Malcolm's bunks. They'd returned the blanket to its former position, so that it was not obvious that anything had been disturbed.

Malcolm met him near the door as he came in. His eyes were full of concern, and Darius could tell something was not right. He scanned the room furtively, spotting Chaplain Burke in the kitchen. She was making conversation with the volunteers, trying hard to act nonchalant, but she'd never claimed to be a good actress, and Darius' suspicions were raised when he heard her speaking with an unusually high pitched voice.

And then, he noticed the empty dorm.

"What is this, Eagle?" he demanded. "What's goin' on? Where is everyone?"

Concerned that Darius had already been tipped off to their trap, Bishop stepped out from behind the fridge. "Federal Agents! Darius Lane, put your hands in the air, NOW!"

"Shit!" Darius exclaimed, and made a run for the dorm. Tony stepped out from the doorway that had concealed him, and stuck his foot out to trip the young man. He caught Darius' foot, but somehow, the kid managed to regain his footing. He pulled a gun from inside his jacket, just as one of the residents wandered back in, looking for the cigarettes he'd left on one of the common room tables. It was old Jake Cromley, a 76-year old hobo with about three teeth and only three fingers on his left hand. Seizing the opportunity, Darius grabbed the elderly man. Holding the weapon against Jake's right temple, Darius glared at Tony.

"Back off, or the old man buys it!" he threatened.

This was an unexpected development - nothing they'd learned from Eagle had suggested that Darius had any access to firearms. They were quickly losing control of the situation, but there was no way to tip off Ned to what was going on inside without Darius seeing them.

"Darius! You don't wanna do this," Eagle pleaded with him. "You gonna throw your whole life away if you take another life." He caught the look in Darius' eyes. "That's right, kiddo. They know. They got the knife. Please, don't make this any worse than it already is!" Eagle tried to advance towards the boy, but as he did so Darius got even more twitchy, shoving the barrel of the gun harder against Cromley's head. The old man whimpered, and Eagle raised his hands and took a step backwards. "All right, all right. Take it easy, kiddo. Why don't you just let him go, and then you and me can talk, man to man?"

"No way," Darius demurred. "He's my ticket outta here." He started walking backwards, towards the side entrance. Ned had been positioned within view of that entrance earlier, but he'd never get a clear shot while Jake was being used as a shield, and he wouldn't know he needed to be standing right by the door to get a jump on them. Tony's mind was racing, turning over multiple options. He was a good enough shot that he could probably take the kid out right now. If Darius managed to get outside the building, he might release his hostage and make a run for it - there was no guarantee they'd be able to catch him. Tony was athletic, to be sure, but he wasn't 16 years old anymore, and couldn't run as fast as he had in his youth. Or, he might not release the hostage…things could get a lot worse. What if he hijacked a car? What if Ned saw him, took a shot, and hit Cromley instead? This whole thing would go to hell in a hand basket the moment Darius stepped outside that door, no matter what the aftermath.

"Darius." A calm, quiet voice rang out across the common room. Silhouetted in the doorway stood Chaplain Burke. Bishop was behind her - meaning she was vulnerable, a potential target that Darius might be able to take out as a diversion while he made his escape. Great - more variables. Tony didn't like the way this was shaping up at all. Burke stepped forward slowly into the room. "Darius," she repeated softly. "You believe that God sees everything, don't you?" The young man pursed his lips, but nodded affirmatively. "And not only that, He knows what's in your heart, too." She took another step forward; Darius didn't flinch - he seemed to be responding to her. Nevertheless, Tony kept his gun aimed squarely at Darius' head, just in case. He caught Bishop's eye from where she stood behind Burke, and motioned ever so subtly with his head, hoping she'd take the hint and slip out to tip off Ned to what was going on inside. With Darius' attention focused on the Chaplain, Ellie was able to do just that, and she disappeared from view without making a sound. "God has a plan for you, Darius. He knows you have the heart of a good person. He wants you to use that good heart. You can make this world a better place, sweetie. But this is not the way to do that." She took yet another step forward. They were now an arm's length apart from one another. Darius stared at her, eyes wide. He was clearly frightened, but somehow he was being mesmerized by Chaplain Burke's voice.

He took a step back. She was getting too close. Jake murmured something, and Darius got jumpy. He twitched and the gun went off. A bullet ricocheted onto the ceiling, hit a beam, and bounced back down. Eagle collapsed to the floor in a heap. Chaplain Burke shrieked in alarm, and ran forward to his side. He gasped out a couple of words - "Dar — No! Knife!"

And then, he was still.

In the commotion that ensued, Tony rushed up behind Darius and wrestled the gun from his hand. Jake tore away and loped across towards the kitchen as fast as his gout-ridden leg would allow him to, very glad to be freed from Darius' grip. He ran straight into Ned Dorneget, who'd come rushing in as soon as he'd heard the gun discharge. They looked on with concern as Bishop and Chaplain Burke ministered to Eagle. Burke laid her hand on Eagle's forehead and murmured a fervent prayer. His eyes flipped open, and Tony grinned.

"Well-played, Malcolm! You ok?" Eagle sat up slowly, rubbing his elbow, which he'd managed to bang rather forcefully on the way down onto the concrete floor.

"Yessir, I think so." He looked over at Darius, who was now so angry he was ready to spit the bullets instead of fire them from his gun. "Had to do it, kiddo. Needed to stop you from hurtin' someone for real."

Tony slapped a pair of handcuffs on Darius' wrists, pulling his arms forcefully behind his back. Chaplain Burke smiled at Malcolm. "You're a better actor than I am, that much is obvious, Eagle." He grinned back at her.

"Well, I did a stint in the drama club in high school. Guess some of it stuck with me." Bishop and Burke helped Malcolm to his feet. "Guess I'm gonna have to see that doc of yours again, for this elbow, Agent DiNozzo." Tony nodded.

"That can certainly be arranged."

Malcolm headed towards Darius, who was writhing around trying to get out from Tony's firm grip. "I don't understand, kiddo. Why'd you do it? Why kill Col. Hartmann? Why throw your whole life away? And now they'll have you on a second charge of attempted murder as well as the first one. I just don't get it!" Eagle's eyes were full of sadness as he stared into the face of his young protégé.

Darius was struggling to stay with the anger, but despair and grief were rapidly taking over, and he couldn't muster the strength to stop the tears from flowing. "I did it for you, Eagle!" he whimpered. "That man, he treated you so bad, an' he needed to get what was comin' to him. It was only right."

Malcolm shook his head sadly. "No, Darius. That ain't the way to deal with things like that. It ain't right to take the law into your own hands. Sometimes justice don't happen in this life, but it'll come in the next." Darius' eyebrows raised, and Malcolm nodded. "I'd have been ok with that. But not this. It makes me sad, you thinkin' this would be what I'd want."

Darius' lower lip trembled. "But…Eagle…why'd you tell me all that stuff, if you didn't want somethin' done about it? I thought you knew I could fix it for you! I thought that was why you told me!" Tears welled up in the boy's eyes.

Malcolm bumped Darius under the chin with his fist. "Don't you see, son? You didn't fix anything. Not at all. Now I have to live with the fact somethin' I said caused another man to lose his life. He might have treated me bad, but that's not enough to make him deserve to die. It ain't our place to decide who lives and who dies. That's up to the Lord. Ain't that right, Chaplain?" He gave Burke a sidelong glance, and she smiled and nodded.

"That's right, Eagle. 'It is mine to avenge, says the Lord.' Bishop thought she caught Burke winking at Malcolm, although she couldn't reason why that would be, and dismissed it, assuming she'd misread the signal.

"What's gonna happen to me now?" Darius asked, suddenly acutely aware of the seriousness of his situation. He'd been so devoted to the older man, that he'd been willing to do just about anything to please him. Taking out his worst enemy had seemed an obvious choice. It devastated him that, not only had this not pleased Eagle, it had actually had the opposite effect. And it had been all for nought, because now he was probably going to spend the rest of his life in jail. Or so he feared.

Eagle was still anxious to help the young man, in spite of all that had happened this evening. The next few days were going to be frightening for him, and Malcolm knew he'd need a friend to get him through it. "You gonna have to face the music, Darius. But don't worry - you tell the truth, you come clean about everything, and it'll go better for you. Ain't that right, Agent DiNozzo?" He gave Tony a pointed glance.

Tony nodded. But his thoughts were elsewhere. One thing was still bothering him - they had not solved the cold case. Darius hadn't even been born yet when the first three murders had taken place, so they couldn't close the book on the tale of the renegade Marine squad just yet.

"The Chaplain'll help you too, won't you?" Burke smiled and nodded.

"Of course I will. Darius, you still have a chance to turn your life around. I know a good lawyer - I'll make sure you get proper representation. You're still legally a minor. That doesn't mean you won't need to face some punishment for what you've done, but it does mean that if you take it like a man," she smiled at him, "and you behave well in prison, you may be able to get your record wiped clean eventually once you come out. You'd get a fresh start." She tilted her head. "But that's only if you do exactly as they tell you, and don't cause any trouble. Do you think you can do that, Darius?"

The young man nodded vigorously. "Yes Ma'am. I only ever wanted to do what I thought was right."

Tony led Darius out to the car, and Eagle sank back down onto his bunk, resting his head in his hands. Burke came and sat beside him, patting his back. "You did the right thing, Eagle. He's got a hard road ahead of him, but I believe this is an opportunity for him to get straightened around. Remember what I said to you the other day…" Eagle nodded.

"I'm so tired, Chaplain. Tired of everything. Tired of the hating. Tired of the secrets. Tired of the lies. I just want to be free of it all." He sighed.

"Get some rest, Eagle. You'll be able to think more clearly in the morning." She patted his knee, and stood. He smiled up at her, and nodded. As he watched her walking away, he thought to himself how fortunate he was to have such a wonderful person to confide in.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Malcolm slipped off his shoes and coat, and slid under the blanket of his bunk. It was lights-out, but even though he was exhausted, he had no idea how he was going to get to sleep. He kept turning the events of this evening over and over in his mind, wondering if there were anything he could have done differently. Chaplain Burke had assured him that he'd done the right thing. But had he? Would it perhaps have been better for him to confront Darius privately? Get him to turn himself in, without all that confrontation, hostage-taking nonsense? Darius would be in less trouble now if he had handled it that way instead. Then again, there was no guarantee that he would have agreed to turn himself in. He might have bolted, and there was no way Malcolm could catch the young man - he was way too quick for that. In his youth, he'd been a fast runner, but no way could he keep up with the kid now. He had a slight limp, an injury from the Gulf, and an extra 30 or so pounds that put additional pressure on all his joints. His knees ached most of the time, and he found himself getting out of breath more easily these days.

He turned over on the bunk, to face away from the door. There was a sliver of light shining in from the kitchen and the hallway, and it was a distraction he could do without. He thought back to the days when they'd been out in the desert, trying to get comfortable in a tent or hunkered down underneath a tank for shelter. Never knowing whether some Iraqi raiding party would stumble upon them in the night and just blow the whole damned thing to smithereens. At least if that happened they'd never know what hit them, and that was the best comfort he could afford at the time. Of course, the more likely scenario would be that they'd be taken captive, tortured, and THEN killed. He had made a pact with some of his Marine brothers, that they'd stick a knife in each other's stomach if that happened so as not to reveal any secrets to the enemy. Just make it good and quick, was the instruction.

He wasn't sure whether he was glad it hadn't come to that at the time. There had been so much sorrow and misery since then, since he got back to the USA. He wasn't exactly sure why it had been so hard to re-assimilate. It didn't really make sense. The Corps had provided lots of opportunities for support, but he'd not been interested in any of them at the time. By the time he realized that accepting help would probably be a good idea, the window of opportunity had passed. He'd dropped off the grid, no longer had a fixed address, and had no-one to vouch for him. No pension. No supports. Just life on the street and a Dear John letter in his pocket.

He took a raspy breath, and gritted his teeth as a sharp pain ran through him. The angina was getting worse these days. He did have some nitroglycerin pills somewhere. He rifled through the pocket of his jacked and found one, sticking it under his tongue and taking deep breaths as the doctor had recommended. "If it gets any worse, you need to come back, so we can give you a proper examination," he'd been scolded. But he'd just shaken his head. He wasn't interested in all those fancy tests. What good would it do? He couldn't afford whatever treatment they'd tell him he needed, and why get his hopes up under those circumstances? He'd signed himself out of the ER under his own recognizance, and decided he'd just have to live with the discomfort. He tried to find a more comfortable position. Sometimes lying on his back was helpful, so he rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The light was bothering him still, but the pain bothered him more, so he'd deal with it. He tried counting the light bulbs in the ceiling. Gradually they blurred and he slowly found himself back in the barracks in the Green Zone, before they'd been deployed to Kuwait…

* * *

 _There was a pungent smell that permeated the air here - it was a mixture of spices (myrrh and other things he couldn't identify), roasted goat, and vomit. Lovely. Oh yes, now he remembered. A few of them had been out drinking the night before, and when they'd got home, his buddy Nate had insisted that he was fine, only to keel forward and hurl right into Eagle's boots - that he'd just taken off and left lying next to his bunk. Gawd. Now what was he going to do? He glanced at his watch - 05:30. In another half-hour, Hartmann would be appearing, ready to inspect their barracks. He'd be in for it then - it wasn't fair, but that was the way these things worked, he was rapidly realizing. Because he was black, it was always going to be his fault, even if it was Nate who'd upchucked. And of course, Nate, being interested in self-preservation, wasn't going to 'fess up. If he tried to tell the truth, Hartmann would never believe him anyway, so why bother? He had had such high hopes when he'd signed up, being a Marine was a proud thing, and he wanted to serve his country. But he hadn't signed up for being abused, and he wasn't sure how to deal with that aspect of this gig. Would it ever get better? He wasn't sure._

 _As he lay there, sniffing the air and trying to delude himself into believing that it was all just a dream and there really wasn't a pile of tossed cookies in his boots, he could hear Hartmann's familiar steps approaching the barracks. He sat up to attention, jumped out of bed, and instinctively grabbed the boots, tipping them upside down and watching in distress as the goop slowly oozed out of them onto the floor. The top of it had hardened into a loose crust, which flaked off as it dripped. It stank to high heaven, and his bunkmates protested loudly and vociferously. But what could he do? There was a towel on the side table, so he grabbed that and quickly gathered up the vomit in it and slid it underneath his bunk. He knew how to dress quickly (he was already half-way there anyway). He made his bed in haste, listening carefully as Hartmann stood outside chatting to the guard and smoking a cigarette before coming in to inspect the barracks. Within just a few minutes, everything was ship-shape…except for that smell, and the little secret package under the bed. He thankfully had a spare pair of boots, so he'd stuck the offending ones under the bed too. There wasn't much else he could do at this point._

 _The door swung open suddenly, and Hartmann trudged in, making, it seemed, as much noise as he possibly could. "Ten- hut!" the guard bellowed, and they all snapped to attention. Hartmann stood in the doorway and scanned the room. Immediately he began to sniff the air, and made a beeline for Eagle's bunk._

" _What's that odor, Corporal?" he demanded, getting up so close to Eagle's nose that he was practically touching it with his own._

" _Odor, sir?" Eagle asked innocently. He knew he'd be found out eventually, but he was going to string this along as long as he possibly could. Maybe a miracle would happen, and Hartmann would get distracted by something one of the others was doing?_

" _Yes, Corporal. ODOR. As in, smell. Aroma. Fragrance… STINK." Hartmann pushed Eagle aside, and got down on one knee to peer underneath the bunk. That was it - he was done for. Not much he could do to save himself at this point, so he simply stood there and waited for the inevitable abuse that was sure to come._

 _Hartmann yanked on the towel, and pulled out the offending evidence from underneath the bunk. His fellow Marines wrinkled their noses, struggling to maintain their composure as the scent of puke wafted through the barracks. Hartmann opened up the towel, then peered inside the boots. He chuckled, then caught himself, and resumed a stern expression. He stood and prepared to lay into Corporal Jefferson in his best Drill Instructor voice. "Jefferson! What the hell is this? You come back drunk and disorderly from a night of carousing last night?"_

 _Malcolm's eyes flitted across to Nate, but he wasn't about to break the code and rat on his fellow Marine. "Wasn't me, sir, but I can't say who it was. I musta been asleep when it happened. Just woke up to it this morning."_

" _And tried to conceal it. Huh. Very mature of you, Corporal."_

" _Yes sir. I mean, no sir." He honestly wasn't sure of the correct response, and most likely there wasn't one - no matter what he said, Hartmann would twist it around to suit his own purposes._

" _The rest of the squad is doing drills outside this morning. You, Nigger, are cleaning these boots. And then you're cleaning the spare boots of every other Marine in this barracks. Understood?"_

" _Yes sir," Eagle murmured, gritting his teeth in anger._

 _Nate cleared his throat. "Got something to say, Private?" Hartmann shot at Nate._

" _Yessir." He glanced around at his fellows, and swallowed hard. "It was me, sir. I got sick early this morning, and…well…couldn't make the bathroom in time, sir." Malcolm's jaw dropped. Could this really be happening - one of his fellows actually standing up for him, for a change?_

" _That so, Sergeant?" Hartmann asked, half-heartedly. It seemed he was disappointed not to be able to make hay out of this situation with Malcolm._

" _Yessir. It is. I'll clean up Eagle's boots for him, sir. It's only fair." Hartmann spun around to face Nate. "You will do no such thing, Sergeant."_

" _Sir?"_

" _I want you on that drill field with the rest of this unit. This Nigger needs to learn his place. It's not appropriate for a Sergeant to be cleaning up a Corporal's boots." What he really was saying, of course, was that it wasn't appropriate for a white man to be cleaning up a black man's boots, but this was much more politically correct way of saying it. No-one was going to catch out ol' Hartmann as a racist, even if he did use the word 'Nigger'. He always had just enough official protocol and rule of law backing up his actions to make them impossible to question. It was maddening, and Eagle had no idea how he was going to survive this for the next however-long-this-tour-lasted. He couldn't wait to get back state-side and be with his girl again. They were going to get married once this tour was over; he'd decided. He would take her for a lovely dinner the night he got back, and he'd slip the ring underneath her plate when she wasn't looking. Then, when the waiter came and removed the plate, she'd find it, just in time for dessert. He'd order her something really special, and slip the ring on her finger as she licked her spoon of ice cream and frosting. It would be perfect._

 _He was jolted back to reality by the sound of the door slamming behind the men as they trotted out onto the drill field. Although it was humiliating, part of him was secretly glad he didn't have to do drills today. He was sick and tired of having to run extra laps, crawl on his stomach farther than anyone else, and have dirt scuffed in his face. Maybe clean-up duty wouldn't be so bad. He could hold his breath for the worst of it, couldn't he?_

 _As he rinsed his boots under the tap, he continued his daydream about what it would be like when he got home. His girl would be waiting for him on the tarmac when the plane landed. He'd run over to her and scoop her up in his arms. They'd go back to her place, and make passionate love. (God, how he missed the sex! He couldn't understand all the other guys who would cheat on their wives and girlfriends without even blinking, just to satisfy their most basic physical needs, without even thinking about the damage they were doing to their relationship. Malcolm believed in being faithful. He loved his girl dearly, and would prove it to her by holding out until he got back state-side.)_

 _He filled a bucket with water and mopped the floor; not just the area under his bunk, although he gave that special attention. No, he would prove to Hartmann that he was not a slacker. He would mop the WHOLE floor - all 1,200 square feet of it. A half-hour later, he was finally finished - and so was the drill. As he stepped outside into the sunlight, he saw them breaking formation and trotting back towards the barracks. He sighed. It would be another two days before his boots dried out completely, and another week before the smell finally lifted from them._

 _Hartmann marched up to him and slapped him in the gut with his helmet. The impact took the wind out of him, and he struggled to keep on his feet. A slow, burning pain made its way up into his throat - it felt a bit like heartburn, but it was moving too quickly for that to be the cause. He really needed to sit down. He stepped back into the barracks, and stumbled over to his bunk, collapsing into it, face-down…_

* * *

"Eagle! Eagle!" Chaplain Burke took him by the shoulders and shook him hard, but he did not respond. She took his hand. It was cold.

She bit her lip, and sat down beside him, stroking his cheek. "Oh, Eagle…" She made the sign of the cross, and muttered a silent prayer. Rev. Tarnower took note from his vantage point in the kitchen, and padded softly into the bunk room. He stood at a respectful distance, and watched as Burke gently laid Eagle's hands on his chest. He had begun to stiffen, so it was with some difficulty that she manipulated his arms. She pulled the blanket up over him, and got to her feet.

"I need to pay a visit to Agent Gibbs. Reverend, will you contact the funeral home? I don't believe Eagle has any next of kin."

"I'll check his file," Rev. Tarnower replied. "But I think you're right." He went to the doorway and closed the door. "I think we'd better keep everyone out of here for now. Leave him in peace."

"Poor thing. He's been through so much in the last few days. At last, he can rest." And with that, she donned her coat and stepped out.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Jimmy had just finished dispatching the body of Lt. Col. Hartmann. They were finished the autopsy, and would learn nothing more about the case from further study, so it was time to release the body to his wife for burial. He signed off on the release papers, and headed back into the building to get out of his scrubs and make his way home. Breena was craving bananas and olives, so he had instructions to stop at the grocery store on the way home. All her cravings were fascinating to him, and he didn't mind in the least all these extra errands…it was like taking part in a scientific experiment in which the subject was closer than any he'd ever encountered.

He was feeling excitement and trepidation in equal measure. Although he found it easy to talk with Dr. Mallard about most subjects, his mentor had no experience with pregnant women, and it seemed a bit odd to be asking him for counsel on this matter. In fact, the only two people in the Agency that had any exposure to this type of scenario were Agent Gibbs and Director Vance, and Jimmy didn't feel especially comfortable approaching either of them with any of his questions. And so, he simply went along, day by day, and watched and noted the changes as they occurred.

He realized that most people would be able to talk with their parents, or their in-laws, about their own experiences. In fact, that might be the ideal way to get information about this, since his mother-in-law's experience might very well be very similar to Breena's. But he always felt awkward around Breena's mom. She was a very well put-together woman (much like her daughter, but without the fresh, open attitude). She intimidated Jimmy. The best analogy he could come up with was that she reminded him of an older Dana Scully - incredibly intelligent, not a hair out of place, and able to think and talk so quickly on her feet that he couldn't possibly hope to match her in conversation.

His father-in-law…well, they'd started off on the wrong foot, and it hadn't exactly gotten much better. He tolerated Palmer, mainly because the kid seemed to make his daughter happy, but he was none too pleased that Jimmy had put him in his place that last Christmas Eve before the wedding. He could respect the young man without liking him, and that pretty much summed up their relationship, right there. Jimmy wouldn't even know where to begin if he were to broach the subject of pregnant women with him. He somehow doubted his father-in-law had bothered much about his wife's needs when she'd been expecting. But Jimmy wanted to cater to Breena's every need and desire. He wanted her to know he was attentive and loving, and that he cared about her comfort and well-being.

As he mused about all of this, and contemplated whether or not to bother approaching Director Vance (there was no way he was ever going to talk to Gibbs about any of this), he heard the autopsy bay doors swoosh open, and spun around to see Ducky arriving from a trip to Abby's lab.

"Ah. Mr. Palmer. Good that you are here. We need to talk." Ducky peeled off his blue-green cap and scrubs top, and tossed them into the bin next to the door.

Jimmy froze. "We do, Doctor?"

"Indeed we do," Ducky replied, slipping off the booties from his shoes. Jimmy began to mirror his movements, removing his scrubs in like fashion.

"What's this about, Doctor? I haven't done anything wrong, have I?" Jimmy asked nervously.

Ducky chuckled. "No, no, Mr. Palmer. Certainly not. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is I who have been doing something terribly wrong, and I need to right that wrong." Jimmy looked at him quizzically. "You aren't in a hurry, are you, dear boy?"

He shook his head no. "Breena's with her mom, shopping. They won't be home until about 8 o'clock tonight."

"Right. In that case… a pot of tea is in order." Ducky scurried off into the back room and began to prepare the tea, setting out a tray with two cups and saucers, sugar cubes and milk. Jimmy sank down into a chair, uncertain about what was to come. Despite Ducky's assurances, his heart was in his throat. They'd had some cross words lately, a phenomenon that threw him for a loop and made him extremely uncomfortable. What 'wrong' could Ducky possibly be talking about? Surely Tony hadn't blabbed? The one thing he could always count on was that DiNozzo would keep his confidences.

Ducky returned after a few minutes, with a freshly steeped pot of English Breakfast and a small plate of shortbread cookies. He sat down opposite Jimmy, and poured the tea. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, each sipping from their respective cups and nibbling on biscuits. Ducky looked at Jimmy over the top of his glasses.

"Mr. Palmer. It is time for you to step out of my shadow. And you cannot do so when I am still casting such a large one." Sip. "You have proven over the last year that you are more than capable of doing this job without me." He could see Jimmy opening his mouth to protest, and he held up his hand to stop him. "Now, before you say a word, Jimmy, this is not about you. This is about _me_. I shall be 75 years old in a few months' time. I am very comfortably appointed now that mother is gone. I do not need an income, and NCIS does not need a dinosaur."

Jimmy sat silently, not knowing how to respond. He wanted to advance, but he also wanted the status quo to remain. There was a fine balance in his universe and he did not want that balance to be disrupted. Ducky was actually talking about retirement. Jimmy wasn't afraid of working on his own - after all, he'd done so for a number of months while Ducky had been recovering after his heart attack - but he felt a looming sadness when he contemplated things changing and no longer being able to listen to all of his mentor's stories and tall tales. That was part of the job, part of the atmosphere in autopsy, and what had kept him going during that solo time had been the knowledge that eventually Ducky would return, and things would go back to normal. Now he was facing the possibility that 'normal' was going to change…permanently.

"Doctor," he began, choosing his words carefully. "I know I can do this job. You've taught me so much. Not just the medical knowledge, either. You taught me how to handle Agent Gibbs, and how to keep calm when there's pressure from all sides to produce results. I'm ready. But…" He looked Ducky dead in the eyes, and licked his lips. "…If I had wanted to work solo, I could have done so a long time ago. There have been a number of opportunities…" he drifted off.

Ducky raised his eyebrows. It honestly had not occurred to him that Jimmy could have walked away from NCIS, or at least from the Navy Yard, and found employment elsewhere. But now that the subject had been broached, he realized it had always been a possibility. From the moment Palmer had graduated from medical school, he'd already had quite an arsenal of tools in his kit. He was bright, and he was a quick study. He also knew how to think outside the box, occasionally coming up with innovative suggestions that even surprised the old ME after all his years on the job.

"…I turned them down. Every last one of them. Not because I was afraid to step out on my own. But because I have a family here at NCIS. This is my home. I fit in. And you and I…we work so well together, Doctor. We've come to anticipate each other's thoughts, and there's so much we don't even need to say when we're doing an autopsy. The bottom line is, I enjoy working with you. I always knew that things would have to change eventually, and that you'd want to retire at some point…I guess you're never really quite ready for it when it happens. I just want to make sure you're stepping aside for the right reason, and not just because of me." He took a big gulp of his tea, sat back, and waited.

A benevolent smile slowly manifested itself over Ducky's face. "Mr. Palmer, the truth is, I've been ready to step aside for some time now. I have held off, for the simple reason that I wanted to be sure that you had the confidence to manage here on your own. It seems I have misread the situation, but no matter. Now that we have things out in the open, I can ride off into the sunset without a qualm." He leaned forward and patted Jimmy on the back of the hand. "I know that you will make this job your own. And someday, you will acquire an assistant of your own. When that day comes, I trust you will remember some of what I've taught you, and impart it to your own student. It is the way of the world, Mr. Palmer." He stood, and gathered the cups back onto the tray. "It feels good to get that off my chest. I believe I shall have a chat with Director Vance tomorrow morning. And now, you must get home to your beloved," he added, glancing up at the clock. It was 19:45 and Breena would be home in 15 minutes.

"Thank you, Doctor. For everything." Jimmy felt rather emotional, and didn't want to lose it in front of his mentor so he quickly threw on his coat and scarf, and bid him good night. Ducky was very glad he'd managed to spit out everything he'd wanted to say. Thank goodness Tony had brought it to his attention, for he'd not have had the gumption to bring the subject up otherwise.

* * *

With Darius Lane in custody for the murder of Col. William Hartmann, Gibbs returned to the Navy Yard to release Tazeem Hamdani. With no conclusive DNA evidence in the cold case, and no confession, they couldn't hold him any longer, and Tazeem's lawyer had made sure to remind them of that fact. Abby had tested the water bottle Gibbs had scooped up from Tazeem in Interrogation, and as expected, it had come up negative. Darius had acted alone. Tazeem was grateful to be free, but threatened to take legal action against NCIS for his detainment. Gibbs made sure he was aware that he wouldn't have a leg to stand on - after all, he'd never been charged with any crime. The law allowed for him to be held for up to 24 hours, and it had been less than 17.

As Gibbs signed the paperwork authorizing Tazeem's release, he spotted Chaplain Burke coming off the elevator, a sombre look on her face.

"Chaplain…" he acknowledged her, taking off his glasses and smiling up at her.

"Agent Gibbs, I have some very sad news. Eagle passed away some time during the night." Gibbs set down his pen.

"You sure it was natural causes, Chaplain? We should have Ducky take a look." She nodded.

"If you like. But I'm pretty sure he died of a broken heart." Gibbs raised an eyebrow. She ignored him, and continued, "He was devastated when he learned that Darius had taken matters into his own hands. That boy looked up to him. He idolized him. Eagle felt the weight of that responsibility very heavily. He felt like he was accountable for everything Darius did. That's why he was so upset about the drug use…he thought he should be able to straighten the boy out, all on his own. I tried to get him to understand that it wasn't his job to turn Darius around, but he wouldn't listen. He just kept insisting that Darius was his responsibility and that no matter what, he was going to turn him into an upright citizen. I think Darius reminded him of what he might have turned into, if he hadn't joined the Marines when he did. The Corps straightened Eagle out, put him back on the straight and narrow. Gave him discipline and order in his life. He might have even been trying to persuade Darius to sign up, too."

"That doesn't make sense, Chaplain. You told me Malcolm had rejected the military and everything it stood for. Why would he steer someone else towards an institution that he himself had turned his back on?"

Burke shook her head. "It's not that simple, Gibbs. It wasn't the Corps itself that Eagle rejected. It was men like Col. Hartmann who are attracted to the Corps and who hide behind their rank in order to do harm to others. He wasn't against the IDEA of the military. It had helped him a lot early on in his life. He wanted that for Darius. He was starting to see that he himself couldn't turn Darius around, all by himself. But if he had structure, discipline around him, maybe that would help him. The boy had never had boundaries in his life. Every kid needs boundaries in order to have a safe environment in which to be nurtured and to grow."

"Says the woman who's never been a parent," Gibbs winked.

Burke smiled sweetly, choosing to rise above the insensitive remark. "I may never have been a parent, Agent Gibbs, but I've dealt with plenty of kids over the years. Enough to know what works and what doesn't."

Gibbs pulled his cell out of his pocket and dialled. "Duck. I need you and Palmer to get down to St. Christopher's. Malcolm Jefferson died during the night. We need to confirm no foul play was involved….uh huh…ok, we'll meet you down there." He hung up.

Tony and Tim donned their badges and guns, picked up their backpacks and prepared to head for the elevator. Tazeem was being escorted out, and they listened as he hurled insults at them in some foreign language - presumably an Arab dialect.

"If Ziva were here, she could tell us exactly how bad of an insult that was," Tony quipped.

"I don't think we need Ziva to figure that out," Tim replied.

The mood at the Mission was tense, as the residents worried that yet another murder might have been committed. Eagle had been the most beloved among them, and after the shock of Darius' arrest, his passing was almost more than some of them could cope with.

The MCRT worked the scene quietly and efficiently, and interviewed as many of the residents as possible, confirming that Eagle had bedded down and simply never woken up. No-one had been seen going in or out of the dorm. Jimmy's examination of the body confirmed there were no external signs of foul play, and within an hour, he and Ducky had the body loaded into the van and were headed back to the Navy Yard.

Gibbs drove, and for once, Tony was glad of it. His mind was anywhere but on the road. His mood had sunk even lower, if that were possible; he'd felt certain they'd be able to solve the cold case, but now that the last member of the 5-man unit was gone, in all likelihood the truth would be buried with him. DiNozzo was convinced that Tazeem was guilty, but there was simply no way to prove it. He had a slick lawyer, and international relations demanded that they not pursue him any further without something a lot more concrete to go on than the coincidental timing of his movements. It was ironic – the cold case had led them to the current murderer, while itself remaining unsolved.

Or so Tony thought.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

It had been a week since Eagle's death. The whole team had attended the funeral, including Abby, Ducky and Jimmy. Gibbs had pulled a few strings to get Corporal Malcolm Jefferson a military burial with full honours. The MCRT had all found themselves drawn to the dispirited veteran, and the loss had affected them more than they would have thought possible. Gibbs didn't want to burst that particular bubble, so he chose not to reveal the truth that he had deduced. Although the seal of confession could not be broken, even beyond the grave, the gold Chi Rho pendant that Burke wore around her neck at the cemetery – a posthumous gift to her from the elderly former Marine - hinted at the facts concerning the first three murders. She'd noticed Gibbs eyeing it, and had fingered it self-consciously, then nodded in response to his raised eyebrows. Why Hartmann himself had been spared remained a mystery - one they perhaps would never solve.

Every time they found themselves at Arlington Cemetery, it brought back memories for Gibbs of all the buddies he'd lost since the Gulf War. With Eagle's death, it felt like he'd lost another. He'd known so many like him, over the years…men who'd found it impossible to integrate back into society after the traumatic things they'd done and witnessed, and for whom all the supports the military could provide were insufficient help. The smell of freshly-mown grass…the call of mourning doves nesting in the trees above them…the light breeze catching the edge of his suit jacket. It all took him back to previous funerals, previous goodbyes.

A dull melancholy had settled over the team, and Vance had taken them off rotation for a week to re-group. Gibbs had retreated to his basement, crafting wooden toys for the NCIS holiday toy drive. It was still summer, but he wanted to have a good stash of them ready, and Abby, who would be happy if it were Christmas 365 days of the year, had also asked for some to be donated for the Christmas bazaar the sisters were putting on this year. It wasn't quite as relaxing as working on a boat, but he'd run out of women to name them after. Sanding the smooth, silky hull of a sailboat was a lot more sexy than whittling the wings of a toy bird on a pull-string, and required less dexterity as well. He could do it without his close-up glasses, too. But it was a worthwhile cause, and the extra concentration was good for keeping his mind off all of the losses over the years.

Gibbs glanced up at the small, black & white TV in the corner. Some idiot in a do-rag was being voted off the island, and the dramatic background music had caught his attention momentarily. He rolled his eyes, and returned to his work. He saw the headlights of a car swing past the window behind him, and recognized the hum of the motor.

Tony.

It seemed to have been a long while since DiNozzo had darkened his door - earlier in their working relationship, they'd spent many an hour together, either in this basement or up in the living room, usually with Tony either confessing some sin or seeking advice on one personal matter or another. Gibbs had always been ready to dispense advice, but he wasn't sure why Tony felt so comfortable turning to him. He thought back to the time when their relationship was still new.

The first time they'd had a heart-to-heart, DiNozzo had shown up in his wedding finery, looking haggard and lost. Wendy had called him that very morning to say she'd had a change of heart, and if she'd left it another few minutes he'd have been waiting for her at the church instead of standing in front of his mirror checking his hair. He'd been hurt and angry, obviously, and Gibbs hadn't really known what to say to the young man. He'd been dumped himself plenty of times, but his women always waited until AFTER the wedding. Which was rather more expensive, he chuckled to himself. Tony didn't know how lucky he was - a narrow escape. Better that it should happen before the court ordered him to pay alimony. There wasn't really anything he could have said to make Tony feel better, and he knew that wasn't why he'd come over. He just didn't want to go home to an empty apartment. And Gibbs understood that - the first time he himself had come home after Shannon and Kelly's deaths, the emptiness had threatened to swallow him whole. And so, he'd let Tony sit there and watch as he worked on the boat - the _Stephanie_.

Eating steak, cowboy-style, in the living room as Tony reflected on Senior's narrow escape from the Adam's House Hotel was another fond memory; by that time their relationship had matured and outside of the bullpen, he regarded Tony as more friend than subordinate. On the job, he needed to keep that distance, for the sake of the workings of the team as a whole. It was important for everyone to understand who was boss, after all. He was pretty sure Tony realized that was all for the sake of appearances, (at least, he hoped he realized that), and that he no longer actually thought of Tony as the 'kid' he'd brought back from Baltimore. There was about fifteen years between them - enough to make it just a bit awkward talking on an equal footing about things like relationships and co-workers. Gibbs liked to think of it as a mentoring thing; and of all the agents he'd trained up over the years, DiNozzo was his greatest accomplishment.

He'd seen the richness of the raw material in their first encounter in Baltimore, and had felt certain that he could work with it to mould the young man into a truly brilliant agent. And he believed he'd accomplished precisely that. The fact that he'd never been able to bring himself to tell that to Tony was a fact he preferred not to deal with. (Aside from the fact that it wasn't his style, Gibbs had convinced himself that it would go straight to Tony's head if he were to tell him what he REALLY thought of him. The sad thing was, that he also knew Tony desperately NEEDED to hear him say it, since he'd had so little positive reinforcement from his father).

Tony seemed a real contradiction - on the surface he was cocky, supremely self-confident and intrepid. There was no doubt his courage was genuine - he'd never hesitate to put himself in harm's way if it were required to get the job done, and Gibbs never doubted that Tony always had his six. But deep down, the younger man had low self-esteem and was desperate for attention and acceptance. He overcompensated, and sometimes that really got on Gibbs' nerves. They shared a similar sense of humour and appreciation of the female form, but that was where the similarities ended. Tony's stint in military school had afforded him discipline in his personal habits, and nothing more. He wouldn't have lasted five minutes in the Corps, and it was truly ironic that he'd found a home at NCIS, dedicating his life to seeking justice on behalf of the U.S. Navy. But DiNozzo knew how to buckle down and get a job done when he had to, and that was a character trait that Gibbs could admire and appreciate.

The thing that impressed Gibbs the most about Tony, though, was the quickness of his brain - he could pull information and facts together and solve a puzzle more quickly and deftly than any agent Gibbs had ever worked with. Gibbs operated on his gut, and gathered facts to confirm his instincts, whereas Tony put the facts themselves together and figured things out first, then let his gut tell him if anything was missing. In a way, Gibbs realized that Tony's way was better, but hell, everyone had their own style of working, and after so many years he wasn't about to change now. He knew, though, that the MCRT would rise to even greater prominence and renown under Tony's leadership once he'd handed over the reins.

Every now and then he wondered if he'd done the right thing, stepping back into his old job after his stint in Mexico. After Jenny's death, Vance had made a comment that had tipped Gibbs off to the fact that she'd offered Tony the Rota assignment. Gibbs wasn't stupid, and he'd put the pieces together and realized that Tony had stayed on in order to keep an eye on him and be his 'minder'. It was a stupid move - DiNozzo could've found himself on the fast track to the top job if he'd played his cards differently. He'd made a sacrifice…for Gibbs. And that made Gibbs angry. He didn't want to be beholden to Tony, and he certainly didn't want to be responsible for Tony's career stalling. And yet, that was precisely where he found himself. He hadn't wanted to be coddled or 'monitored', and he'd lashed out in a passive-aggressive fashion against Tony in those first few months after his return. Looking back on it now, he realized, to his chagrin, that Tim and Ziva had picked up on the hostility and fed off it, adding fuel to the fire. He wasn't sure how, or why, Tony had put up with it, and why he was still here. In his place, Gibbs would've been long gone. Considering Tony's previous track record of leaving one job after another, it was even more surprising that he'd stuck around. One of these days, Gibbs was going to have to ask him about that.

He heard the door open, and wondered if this was going to be that day. Recent events had put them all in a reflective mood. He hadn't heard from Tony since the funeral two days ago - they'd each gone their separate ways, and Gibbs had been incommunicado, by choice. He had no idea what Tony would do with all that spare time…but he supposed he was about to find out. He looked up in response to the familiar foot falls on the basement steps.

"Couldn't sleep," Tony tossed out matter-of-factly. "You neither, huh?"

"Sleep's overrated," Gibbs replied.

Tony descended the remaining steps and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. He surveyed the room. "No more boats?"

Gibbs just looked at him blankly, letting him know it was a silly question. He picked up a small piece of sandpaper and began smoothing the leg of a nutcracker soldier. Tony watched for a few minutes in silence, waiting for the offer of a drink. Eventually, it came. Gibbs knew there was only one reason Tony had come, and that was to talk. But he needed lubrication in order for the words to flow freely. Gibbs set down the sandpaper, and dispensed a couple of glasses of Jack Daniels into two mugs that happened to be nearby. Tony didn't bother asking if they were clean. He took the mug that was handed to him gratefully, and took a long slow sip. He sank down onto a bench.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately, boss."

"That so, DiNozzo?" Gibbs looked bemused, and Tony hoped there wasn't a sarcastic comment hovering on his lips. There was not - Gibbs simply sat back and folded his arms, waiting.

"You ever wonder how you're going to end up? I mean…there's Eagle…no family, no purpose, nothing to look forward to…and he dies alone. It got me thinking…will it be any different for me, in the end? I do the same thing day in, day out. I've turned into a boring creature of routine. There's no excitement in my life anymore." He paused. "Ok, sometimes I've had a little _too much_ excitement, but you know what I mean, right Gibbs?" He looked pointedly at his boss, and Gibbs tried to analyze where this conversation was headed.

"You come here to complain, or just commiserate, Tony?" The look on Tony's face told Gibbs that he'd touched a nerve. "If you're stuck, it's your own damned fault. You've had opportunities to move on, and ya haven't taken advantage of 'em. Not my fault, or my problem."

Tony was shocked at the bluntness of Gibbs' response. He honestly hadn't expected that. This was already going off the rails, and he hadn't even broached the subject of retirement yet. It also occurred to him that Gibbs' comment suggested he had more information than Tony had realized. The door was open. He might as well go through it; he might never have a better chance. He gritted his teeth.

"What do you know about my 'opportunities', boss?" He folded his arms and waited.

Gibbs eyed him carefully. He didn't want this to escalate, but Tony needed a kick in the pants; he was stagnating and pretty soon it would be too late for him.

"I know you turned one down in order to babysit me. I'd call that self-sabotage. If I didn't know you better, Tony, I'd say you were suffering from 'failure to launch'." Tony winced.

"Wow. If you interpret genuine concern for your well-being as 'babysitting', then I feel sorry for you, Gibbs. Just out of curiosity, do you honestly think you'd still be here, if I hadn't covered for you those first few months after you came back?" He practically spit out the words. He'd come here thinking he'd need to tread lightly, not wanting to cause upset or give the suggestion of wanting to push Gibbs aside. But this unexpectedly harsh opening volley had made him rethink his tactics. Few people had the courage to go head to head with Leroy Jethro Gibbs, but Tony DiNozzo was one of them.

It wasn't a fair question, to Gibbs' way of thinking. He had been unaware at the time that there had been any issues with his performance after his hiatus. It was only later, when Vance had let it slip, that he'd gained an understanding of what had happened, and even then he wasn't sure what to make of it. Obviously, Tony believed he'd saved Gibbs' career, and possibly one or two lives, if he really felt Gibbs was a danger to himself and others. But Gibbs himself had no way of knowing how close he'd come to getting pulled off rotation. He knew that if Tony had made Jenny aware of it, she would have had no compunction about removing him.

"Well, DiNozzo, I guess we'll never know, will we?" He glared at the younger agent, and there was a long silence. This wasn't getting them anywhere, Tony realized. He really didn't want to lock horns with Gibbs in this way, and it would be counter-productive if they were going to continue working together for the foreseeable future. He changed tactics.

"I've never been afraid to take the lead, Gibbs. You know that. Hell, I had the lead for 6 months there, and then you took it away from me again. We can't predict when these opportunities are going to be given to us. You know that I haven't had another offer since Rota. What I don't know is, whether you know why." There. All the cards were on the table now. He tilted his head, and waited.

Gibbs sucked in air. He knew deep down that it had been hard for DiNozzo when he'd come back. And he'd made it even harder by his belligerent attitude. But if Tony thought he'd run interference to prevent him from getting another assignment, he needed to set him straight on that score right off the bat.

"Tony…I told you in the beginning - Rule 5. You don't waste good. I picked you for my team because you're good. Jenny picked you for Rota because you're good. We are an elite team. Rota's an elite team. There aren't that many elite teams, and Vance isn't going to put someone that good in a position where they'll be wasted."

"You don't think I'm being wasted right now?" Tony shot back. "I've been your second for 13 years. Thirteen, Gibbs. That's a long time to work in someone else's shadow."

"Well, what do you want, Tony? I can't hand you a team on a silver platter, and neither can Vance. You gotta wait until a suitable position comes available." Tony stared at him in disbelief.

"You honestly don't see it, do you, Gibbs?"

"See what?"

DiNozzo threw up his hands in despair. "How old are you, Gibbs?"

Gibbs chuckled. "Yeah, I know. You want my job. You think I didn't figure that out? I sympathize, Tony, and you can have it…when I'm done with it. I'm not done yet."

"When, Gibbs? When will you be done? The regulations say field agents must be under 55 years of age. I think Director Vance has bent the rules long enough, don't you?". Tony stood. "Well, I guess now it's all out in the open. Yes. I want your job. I don't want just any team. I want THIS team. This is my home. My family. If I got another offer, I don't know if I'd take it. I'm comfortable here. And I shouldn't HAVE to go elsewhere. I've done this job before, and according to Jenny, I 'excelled' at it. Believe me, no-one was more surprised than I was when she said that. But she DID say it. And it meant something, Gibbs. I earned the right of succession. You need to retire. It's time."

He turned and headed up the staircase.

"Tony." He stopped, but did not turn around. The voice was softer, less confrontational. "When Vance assigned you as Agent Afloat, you took it as a punishment. So did I. But it wasn't. Vance saw something in you. He knew that you needed to broaden your experience in order to be effective as a leader. He was grooming you. He's been biding his time, waiting for me to hang it up." Gibbs took a gulp of his drink. "The thing is…the usual thing would be for me to move up into an administrative role. And you know as well as I do that's not going to happen. There's nothing else for me besides Team Lead. And I'm too young to retire. I've still got a few years left." He swallowed, and waited for Tony to turn around. Eventually, he did, and Gibbs continued. "The last thing I want to do is hold you back, Tony. But you can't stick around hoping that this job is going to fall into your lap. Even if I did retire, there's no guarantee Vance would pick you to replace me."

Tony descended the stairs once again. The words shook him to the core - it hadn't even occurred to him, but what if Gibbs was right? What if Vance overlooked him and chose to bring someone else in to lead the team? What if he rode it out, waited for Gibbs to be 'done with it', and after all that, didn't get the long-coveted prize?

"I'm not saying he doesn't think you've got what it takes. Of course, he knows you can do it. But remember, he's got a whole Agency to think about, with offices around the world. He's gotta put his best people where he thinks they'll be the most effective. He may have you in mind for another team, since I'm not going anywhere. You speak Italian as well as Spanish. I hear Oscar Rinaldo is in line for an Assistant Director's role on the Europe & Africa desk. That'd free up the team lead in Naples. Don't be thinking so narrow, Tony. If you want to get ahead, you've gotta think of the big picture."

Tony's big vision of the future was crumbling before his eyes. For the first time in his career, he actually wanted to stay where he was, but realistically he probably wasn't going to be able to cherry pick whatever job he wanted. He'd just assumed that everyone saw him as Gibbs' logical successor. It didn't really matter how Gibbs tried to spin it; he still wasn't convinced that Vance liked him, and he had to admit that sending him away would be a pretty slick move. Couch it in compliments and platitudes, stroke Tony's ego, make everyone think it was a reward for all his great work, when in fact it was just a tactic to get him out of his hair…

On the other hand, regardless of the motive, it WOULD be a promotion. And given the previously-uncontemplated alternative of being passed over when Gibbs DID retire, if an offer came, he'd probably be crazy not to take it. Dammit. He hated it when Gibbs was right. Which was virtually always.

"You really think Vance would give me Naples?" he asked.

"I think you'd have a good shot at it. And I think you'd be a great choice. It'd be a good career move for you." Gibbs smiled. "You eat this evening, Tony?"

"Yeah. But I could go for a slice of pizza."

"All right. You order, while I finish up down here. Then we can talk about your future." Gibbs had a sly smile on his face as he said this, and Tony was reminded of the day, thirteen years ago, when they'd had their first chat about his future, in the orange hallway outside HR. In typical Gibbs fashion, he'd managed to turn the conversation on its head back then, and now he'd done it yet again.

Tony trotted upstairs and pulled out his cell phone. He turned on the staircase landing. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again…you're a devious man, Gibbs."

 **THE END**


End file.
